Guangzhou. Summer 2003. Or what's left of it in memory.
---
Someone said the sickness was gone.
But the thermometers stayed. At every gate. Every village entrance.
---
Some mornings, you wake before the light.
Not because of a sound. Because your bones remember.
The bed is a sponge that gave up years ago.
Beside you, a man snores. Same rhythm as last night.
Same as any night.
---
You look at your hands.
Cement under the nails. Turned into a second skin.
A fake one.
---
The permit. The one with the stamp and the date.
You keep it in your back pocket. Next to the lighter.
The paper is soft now. From sweat. From rain. From sitting on it.
You don't look at the date anymore.
But you know it's close.
---
The security guard at the village gate. Blue uniform. Older than the buildings.
He looks at you. You look at the ground.
He knows. He always knows.
He never says a word. But his eyes —
his eyes say *you don't belong here*.
---
The site.
How many floors? You don't remember. Twelve. Maybe thirteen.
You just climb.
The wooden planks on the scaffolding. Hot. Like a stove from another life.
Two yuan per square meter.
You spread the mortar. Smooth it. Spread again.
The wall never talks.
The wall just waits.
---
Huang. The contractor. His voice always sounded like a fight.
He owed. For how long? You stop counting after a while.
But you remember the number. Twenty-three thousand.
You did the math in three languages.
The number never changed.
---
One afternoon. His car. Silver-gray. The window halfway down.
"Boss. Wages."
He smiled. A smile without a smile.
"You're *sanfei*, you know? No entry. No permit. No job."
He paused. Let it sink.
"One phone call. You're inside."
---
The window went up. The car drove away.
You stood there. Hands in your pockets.
Half a pack of cigarettes. A lighter. A receipt.
The first receipt. The one you kept.
---
That night. The stairwell.
The light had been broken for a while. Weeks. Months. You couldn't tell.
Darkness poured in like water from a tap you couldn't turn off.
You sat down. Didn't move.
---
Your father.
A porch in Hải Phòng. His left leg gone from the knee down.
The war. A long time ago.
He said: *Go to China. Learn something. Don't end up like me.*
He smiled when he said it.
But his eyes —
his eyes never left the war.
---
The first money you sent back. You don't remember the month anymore.
But you remember the number. Twelve hundred.
Your sister's school fees.
A clerk at the post office filled the form for you.
You signed two characters: *Ruan Qiang*.
Your hand shook. Not from fear.
From the months on the site. Knuckles thick. Nails bent.
Like a child's handwriting.
But your sister could go to school.
---
Someone was cooking downstairs. The smoke drifted up.
Fish sauce.
The smell of home.
You missed home. But you couldn't go back.
Going back meant losing. Losing what? You didn't know yet.
---
Late. Very late. The kind of late where time stops.
Your legs were numb. You stood up.
Climbed the stairs in the dark.
The three of them were awake. No one spoke.
"Tomorrow we keep working."
Someone said: "Huang said he'll call the police."
"He won't. We're cheap. He calls, he pays first."
The fan squeaked. The moon outside —
cut into a thin line by the buildings that never let you see the sky.
---
The next day. Same planks. Same heat.
No Huang. No police.
You lifted the trowel.
Spread the mortar.
The wall said nothing.
The wall just waited.
---
One day. Mid-something. You don't remember the date.
The car came back. Window all the way down.
Huang waved.
You walked over.
He handed you an envelope. Thick.
"Fifteen thousand. The rest later."
You took it. Didn't count.
"Thank you, boss."
He smiled. This time, a few teeth were missing from the smile.
---
That night. The stairwell again.
Same darkness. Same fish sauce smell drifting up from somewhere.
The bills were old. They smelled of sweat. Of other people's hands.
You divided the money into six portions.
Yours was the smallest.
The one for Hải Phòng was the largest.
---
You took out a remittance form.
In the *Remitter* column —
you wrote *Nguyễn Văn Cường*.
Then you crossed it out.
Beside it, you wrote *Ruan Qiang*.
Your Chinese name.
You chose it yourself.
*Qiang*. Strong.
It sounded like *wall*.
---
The post office. The same clerk.
He watched you fill the form this time. Didn't help.
You counted the money in front of him. Slow.
He asked: "Sending home again?"
"Yes."
"Vietnam?"
"Yes."
He didn't ask anything else.
The post office sent money everywhere. Every day.
Hunan. Sichuan. Guizhou. Guangxi.
Vietnam.
---
Outside. The sun was white. Blinding.
You stood on the street.
A bus passed. People pressed together.
Their faces all looked the same.
This city had so many people.
Everyone had a piece of paper in their pocket.
A permit. A card. An ID.
You didn't.
You had the wall.
The layer of mortar you smoothed.
Every trowel. Every square meter.
Two yuan.
---
The permit expired. You don't remember when.
One day it was just — over.
You didn't renew it. Couldn't.
You walked on the street. Fast. Didn't look back.
You knew they were looking at you.
But you couldn't let them know that you knew.
---
Night.
The fan blew hot air. It always blew hot air.
You closed your eyes.
Saw your father on the porch.
Saw your sister doing homework.
Saw the floors. The walls you plastered.
Those walls would stand there for years.
Longer than you.
More legal than you.
---
You opened your eyes in the dark.
Said to yourself — quietly, so no one heard —
"You need a name. A place to stand. Not under. On."
Then you turned over.
Tomorrow. The site. The planks. The heat.
The wall that just waited.
---
Guangzhou.
That summer. The one after the sickness.
The buildings kept growing.
A Vietnamese man sat on a stairwell in a village-in-the-city.
Counted his fingers.
Ten.
All there.
Enough.
---
**End of Chapter 23**