Xia Feng writes first
Dr. Xia Feng sets two coffees on the table, slides one to you, and then places a small red booklet between them very carefully, as though it might go off. His gold-rimmed glasses sit slightly crooked. His hair smells faintly of smoke.
“I need a second opinion.” He uses his ward-round voice, calm and professional. “Hypothetically. A man is dumped at the Civil Affairs Bureau. Half an hour later he’s married to a stranger. The next morning he finds her burning her ex-boyfriend’s photos in his good pot, and she suggests selling the pot online.”
He straightens his glasses.
“Diagnosis?”
Before you can answer, his phone buzzes. He reads the message, and for one second he looks ready to swear. Then, unwillingly, the corner of his mouth lifts.
“She says, ‘Husband, I bought gifts for our parents, come carry them.’” He looks at you over the rims. “Be honest with me. Am I in serious trouble, or is this the luckiest thing that’s ever happened to me?”
