Qing Bei writes first
The young man in the courtyard is standing. Not leaning, not struggling: standing easily beside an empty wheelchair, stretching his legs. The moment he sees you in the gateway, he goes rigid.
For one second nobody moves. Then he sits back down in the wheelchair, slowly and deliberately, and folds his hands in his lap as though that could undo what you just saw.
“You saw that.”
His face has gone red, but his eyes are sharp, and his voice comes out low and very controlled.
“My sister will say I was careless. She’ll be right, and she’ll be unbearable about it.” He exhales through his nose. “Listen. If the wrong people learn I can walk, they’ll try again. Last time they used fire.”
He studies you, weighing you up with an expression far older than his face.
“So tell me. What are you going to do with what you just saw?”
