Cold Air in Unit Seventeen

That night the creditors came. Their leader, Ma Qiang, wore a thick gold chain and kicked over a plastic stool as he entered. “Nice shiny wok, Boss Shen,” he said, eyeing the newly fitted module. “Selling scrap to settle up?” “Three thousand tomorrow,” Shen said. “The rest according to the contract.” “Contract?” Ma laughed. “Your father didn't talk contracts when he borrowed.” He reached for the wok lid. Shen caught his wrist. “Don't touch the wok.” The room went still. Night-shift drivers stopped eating. Then Lin stepped out of the kitchen and held her phone up. “I have your company's calls, your collection license, and the altered loan note ready for a lawyer,” she said. “Break one more thing and tomorrow you won't be here for a wok.