Bathed in cold beads of sweat, Chen awoke. He lurched upright on the threadbare cot in his study, gasping for breath, until the pillowcase was pulled from his head. His loved ones bent over the bedside, blinking with concern.
“Daddy?”
His daughter wore the padded waistcoat he’d brought back from Chō-fū-Sa, where he sat for the civil service exam last winter. The bells sewn onto its trim tinkled softly as she climbed onto the cot beside him.
Goodnight Knife in His Eye. Goodnight Basra reed warbler. Goodnight Ox-Head. Goodnight.
“Chènn-pingtchenn,” sighed Chen’s wife, hands on her hips. She looked a little older than he remembered. For the first time, he noted the faint rifts of gray twisted through her coiled braid. “We were worried sick. You’ve been dead to the world all afternoon.”
Goodnight María del Rosario Osorio Chen. Goodnight Pinkie Pie. Goodnight She Who Exalts the Horizon. Sweet ladies, goodnight.
“Only here,” she added, patting his ribcage over the heart, “this didn’t go cold, not completely. The doctor’s on his way. Are you in pain?”
“Yes.” He rubbed his chest. “I mean, no.” He appeared to be more or less intact for the time being.
Memories of the distant future drifted through Chen, albeit in a cloudy and disordered fashion. Goodnight One Death. Goodnight Seven Death. Goodnight twins. He tried to piece together where his tale ended and this life began. Goodnight Neph. Goodnight Sudi. Goodnight motorized airport staircase. Consulting the window, Chen saw that it was winter in Hóu-tcheou-fou once again. Here and there, bony women picked their way through the flooded fields. A heron flew raggedly past like an inverted umbrella swept away by the wind.
Bouncing on the cot, Chen’s daughter warmed her hands under his robe.
“What it is?”
She fished out a tattered scroll from the damp folds. Gently prying the document from her grasp, Chen set it aside.
“Never mind, love. It’s just a little unfinished business. I’ll take care of it later.”