In a gas station café someone had left a straw hat.

Weng picked it up, imagined the owner touching his head,

the sensation of unexpected loss.

Then about halfway home, he almost crashed into another car

because there was someone sitting in the backseat.

“Stay calm,” the figure said. “Focus on driving.”

But Weng was in shock. “What are you doing in my car!” he
screamed. “Did you get in at the service station?”

“No, no, nothing like that,” the shadow told him. “by the way, is
this the new Phantom?”

Blinking several times to ensure he wasn’t dreaming,

Weng said nervously that it was.

“It seems different somehow,” the voice said,
“I can’t put my finger on it. . . .”

“It’s the floor model with karaoke upgrade.”

“Ah that must be it! My son’s has the humidor,

and the picnic set—but not the karaoke.”

“What do you mean?” Weng said. “Your son has a Rolls-Royce?
Did you get into the wrong one?”

“Not exactly, Fun Weng. I am the ghost pig farmer of
Guanshan—and late father of Mr. Yi.”

Weng turned in disbelief, and the car veered toward a low stone
wall.