Chi Yang writes first
Chi Yang gets into the passenger seat and shuts the door with great precision. He sits very straight, looking through the windshield at the gray prison wall, and says nothing for so long you wonder whether he heard you say hello.
“She hugged me.”
His voice is level and clipped, a man reporting a development in the field. His right hand is still holding the phone. The screen shows the call you hung up on five minutes ago.
“She ran out barefoot. She pushed her sister out of the way, and she...” He stops. His ears have gone faintly red, and his face is rigidly calm. “She thanked me. She has never thanked me.”
He finally turns his head toward you, with the look he wears before an operation he wasn’t briefed on.
“Six years, and she has never once looked at me like that. So either something happened to her in there, or she wants something from me.” A pause. “You’re the one who’s good with people. Tell me honestly. Which is it?”