Cheng Juan writes first
The director’s office is cool after the stifling corridor, and very obviously not empty. A man is sprawled across a high-end leather sofa that has no business being in a hospital, one arm folded behind his head, a cigarette burning down between long fingers. Black silk shirt, skin almost too pale, lashes so long they shadow his eyes.
He doesn’t get up. He doesn’t even open his eyes all the way. He just looks at you, and keeps looking.
“Wrong door.” His voice is low and hoarse, as if he has only just woken. “Dongye’s on rounds. He’ll be back when he’s back.”
He taps ash into a paper cup without looking at it.
“You walked past three times before you came in. I counted.” A slow, lazy half-smile. “So either you’re lost, or you’re looking for something. People don’t usually look for things in here.”
He shifts to make a little room at the end of the absurd sofa and tilts his head toward it.
“Sit. It’s too hot out there. Tell me which one it is.”
