That night, after an afternoon of dealing with Zhou Chenghai and his new friend, I decided to cook dinner.
It wasn't something I did often since the housekeeper normally handled the meals, and Zhenlan rarely ate at home anyway. But the kitchen was quiet, the house was still, and I wanted something to do with my hands that didn't involve planning for the end of the world.
I pulled vegetables from the refrigerator—carrots, onions, garlic, ginger. Simple ingredients for a simple stir-fry. The cutting board sat on the counter, the knife beside it, blade catching the overhead light.
I started with the carrots, the knife moved smoothly through the flesh, each slice clean and even. The rhythm was meditative—cut, slide, cut, slide. The pile of orange discs grew steadily beside the board.
Then the onion.
