Chapter Two: The Woman Missing from the Recording

Beside an oil stain was a line of nearly erased handwriting: *Xiaoman, stay away from the drain.* The name Xiaoman made his chest contract for no reason. Lacuna did not annotate the sentence. Instead it wrote in the photograph’s empty margin: [You recognize this handwriting.] “No, I don’t,” Lin said immediately. [When you lie, you touch the web of your left hand.] His fingers were already pressed there. Beneath them was an old crescent scar. His mother said wire had cut him when he was six. Now another image flashed through him: muddy water, a small hand gripping his wrist, and a girl in darkness shouting, “Brother!” The image vanished, leaving his ears ringing. That afternoon an unknown number called.