After Marcus Shaw finished, Captain Reed gave no immediate answer. He lifted his tea mug, took another sip, and set it down with a clink of the lid.
Everyone waited for the boss to speak.
Reed thought for a moment, then said slowly to Marcus Shaw, "You're still leading this. Solve it quickly. The method was brutal, the impact is terrible—I've already received calls from reporters this afternoon. They've got keen noses..."
Before the captain finished, Marcus Shaw cut in, "Understood. Leave it to me."
Reed nodded and pushed himself up from the table with both hands. "That's it for today. Go home for the holiday. We'll pick it up tomorrow."
A few people cheered—some had just remembered it was the Dragon Boat Festival.
---
When Marcus Shaw stepped outside, fiery clouds stretched across the sky. The whole world seemed nested inside a furnace, painted in reds. Gold-edged clouds perched on distant rooftops—stare too long, and they'd scorch your eyes.
Those swollen clouds, like cotton touched by flame, billowed and steamed, burning from one end of the sky to the other, setting everything ablaze, wreaking unfathomable havoc.
Standing at the entrance, staring blankly for a moment, Marcus Shaw suddenly remembered he still had a task. He headed for his Beetle, then stopped, turned around, and hailed a taxi by the road. He got in the back and said, "Jingyuetan."
The driver had a cropped haircut but sported a full beard—seen from the side, his beard was longer than his hair. He glanced up in the rearview mirror and asked, "Jingyuetan? Which gate?"
"West gate."
The driver started the car, muttering, "That'll be a stretch of mountain road."
Marcus Shaw's voice was faint, barely squeezing out a "Mm." He wasn't sure if the driver heard.
As soon as they rounded a corner, the driver started making conversation, asking Marcus Shaw which university he attended and whether he was heading back to campus after a day out.
Marcus Shaw was already starting to sweat. Something seemed to be swelling inside his skull, making his whole body go numb. He didn't respond.
The driver glanced at him twice in the mirror, waited, and when Marcus Shaw still didn't answer, he talked to himself, then pointed at a couple arguing on the sidewalk: "Look at them, fighting. Some young people these days, no manners, putting on a show wherever they go. Like they were raised by wolves."
Marcus Shaw snapped back. "What did you say?"
"Nothing, just commenting."
Marcus Shaw pulled open his backpack, found some bubble gum, and started chewing. He'd just blown a bubble that popped when the driver said, "Don't spit that on my floor."
Marcus Shaw said nothing and blew two more bubbles.
Before long, the car reached the mountain road—the only route to Jingyuetan's West Gate.
Marcus Shaw sat up straighter. The thing swelling inside his brain felt like it might crush his skull. He didn't dare open his eyes too wide, afraid his eyeballs might be pushed out. Both hands gripped the underside of the seat, struggling to recall the coloring scene.
The road was rough—the wheels scraped over stones, dropped into potholes. Each jolt made Marcus Shaw feel his heart might fly out of his throat, and his fingers gripped tighter.
He couldn't help glancing at the mountain on the left, ears straining to hear the mountain breathe. He thought he actually heard a low rumble and couldn't stop himself from urging, "Faster, hurry."
The driver shot him a look. "Can't go faster—gotta watch the road, don't want to scrape the undercarriage. If you're in such a rush, get out and run." His beard twitched as he muttered more complaints Marcus Shaw had no bandwidth to process.
After an agonizingly slow two-plus minutes, Marcus Shaw finally broke through the memory, and Jingyuetan's West Gate came into view.
His forehead was slick with sweat.
He had the driver go another two hundred meters, stopping at the roast duck shop his father loved. Marcus Shaw scanned the QR code to pay, then said to the driver, "Wait here, I'm taking the same ride back."
The driver didn't seem to hear, just kept wiping his face with a towel slung over his shoulder.
After queuing and buying the duck, the taxi was gone.
Marcus Shaw felt annoyed, then recalled he'd quietly stuck his bubble gum under the front seat earlier—and smiled. Call it even.
He crossed the road to find another taxi, but the area was remote, and cabs were scarce. He stood for nearly ten minutes without even a shared ride passing by. Seeing a group of elementary school students streaming out of the park entrance, he wandered over aimlessly.
Remembering how Daniel Shaw had loved nature, always saying places with lots of trees had the freshest air, Marcus Shaw sniffed hard and deep. Countless plant scents mingled together, wrapped in moisture and chill, soaking into every bone in his body.
Passing the ticket window, on impulse he leaned in and asked, "Any discounts available?"
The ticket seller, a young woman with short hair, didn't look up. She was organizing items on the desk and said, "We're closed, closed. Not selling anymore."
"I'm asking if you have discounts."
The woman looked up and met his gaze. "Individual visitors never get discounts, not even with a student ID."
Then she rolled her eyes.
Marcus Shaw stood frozen, then asked blankly, "Individual visitors never get discounts?"
The woman snapped the small glass window shut. "What's wrong with you?"
A thunderbolt seemed to crack through Marcus Shaw's head. The thing that had been pressing inside swelled again.
---
4. Five Cups
When picking up Nora from the arts school, she clearly hesitated, apparently puzzled as to why Marcus Shaw hadn't driven.
But she didn't ask. She just sat silently in the back seat and explained in a small voice, "There's a new piece—two kids keep making mistakes in rehearsal."
Marcus Shaw ignored her as if she were a gust of air entering the car.
His mind was churning like congee. He remembered that promotional text message from back then. For some reason, he didn't bring it up—he just let the confusion simmer thicker.
In the rearview mirror, she glanced occasionally at him in the passenger seat. She seemed to sense something was on his mind, but with a stranger driving, she dared not ask, afraid of making things more awkward.
After a while, the taxi neared his parents' home. The driver asked, "Where should I drop you?"
Nora quickly said, "Could you pull over just ahead, please?"
The moment they entered, Arthur Shaw greeted them with a smile. He took the roast duck from his son's hands and urged his daughter-in-law to change into slippers. Looking left, the dining table was already loaded with dishes—meat, fish, and several stir-fries, colorful and fragrant.
Arthur Shaw emerged from the kitchen: "You two sit down and catch your breath. Once I chop the duck, we'll eat." He disappeared back into the kitchen.
Marcus Shaw went straight to the center of the yellow leather sofa and sat down, face still stony, deep in thought.
Nora stood uncertain for a moment, then went to wash her hands and slipped into the kitchen to help her father-in-law.
Arthur Shaw had just broken down a duck bone when he asked quietly, "Is that boy treating you all right?"
It was an expected question, but Nora was still caught off guard. She paused, then forced a smile and said softly, "He's fine, fine."
Arthur Shaw scrutinized his daughter-in-law's expression, shook his head, and didn't probe further. He just said, "It's hard on you. His heart is troubled—can't rush it."
Nora just smiled and said nothing.
The duck, on its oval platter, was set in the center of the table. Arthur Shaw called out to the living room and upstairs, "Dinner's ready! Dinner's ready!"
Marcus Shaw wandered over, spiritless, and saw his father removing his apron—only to notice the man was still wearing a necktie.
Today's was purple with dark patterns.
Marcus Shaw said, "Doesn't that choke you?"
Arthur Shaw realized, then smiled. "Ah, can't help it. Years of meeting clients—it's a habit now. I feel wrong without one." He patted his forehead, saying he'd almost forgotten about his "babies," then scurried over to the row of glass tanks between the living room and dining area to feed his exotic fish.
Just then, Helen Shaw came down the indoor staircase, wearing a purple qipao embroidered with plum blossoms. Her pale legs appeared and disappeared with each step.
Nora didn't dare look too long. She quickly called out, "Mom," and Helen Shaw responded, "You're here?" Her gaze shifted to her husband, frowning. "Always fussing with those stinky fish of yours."
Arthur Shaw pretended not to hear, sprinkling food into another tank. Nora said, "It's his only hobby. Let him be."
Marcus Shaw hadn't said a word. He'd already torn open a lion's-head meatball and was eating by himself.
After feeding the fish, Arthur Shaw returned to the dining room and told his wife, "Sit down, we've been waiting for you." He urged his daughter-in-law to sit as well.
Helen Shaw leaned against the stair post, using purple-nailed fingers to scratch her curly hair, and said, "You all eat. The community has a Dragon Boat Festival performance and asked me to be part of the show."
Arthur Shaw and Nora froze. Before they could speak, Marcus Shaw slapped his chopsticks on the table and said, "Are you sure someone actually invited you? Or did you just invite yourself? And what are you, Faye Wong or Song Dandan? What kind of show could you possibly carry? Look at your age."
Arthur Shaw glared at his son, then turned to reason with her: "Why don't you eat first? I made your favorite squirrel fish."
Helen Shaw said, "Can't. Can't dance if I've eaten."
Hearing it was a dance in a qipao, Marcus Shaw immediately said to his father, "Forget it, don't even try to convince her. She's in a rush to go be a dancing girl. Let's just eat in peace."