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“This is where I live now. Doesn’t look more than eight square meters.” Yan Hang [1] sat on the revolving chair, phone in hand. His toes tapped the floor, turning the chair around.
[1] YĂ n HĂĄng’s name (晏èˆȘ) is pronounced roughly as “yee-ihn hawng”. His surname is “晏YĂ n”, and his name is “èˆȘHĂĄng”, meaning “boat/to navigate”.
[Nicer than the last one, but a bit messy. You haven’t tidied up after so many days?]
A comment flashed across the screen.
“I’m still hibernating.” Yan Hang yawned. “Too lazy to move.”
[Will you see that kid again today?]
Asked another.
“That kid
 I dunno,” Yan Hang leaned his head back and looked at the living room. “I’ll go wait by the window.”
[Hope he won’t get bullied today, makes me sad.]
Yan Hang didn’t speak. He rose and slowly ambled into the living room to stand by the window.
In his 17 years of life, he and his father had moved countless times into countless different houses.
This time, they resided on the first floor of an apartment building neighbouring a small street. It was quite clean, much better than the last one behind the wet market — at least it didn’t smell funny.
It was just a bit noisy after school.
The neighbourhood was large, so many children big and small walked this road to and from school.
Yan Hang opened the window and sat on the sill.
The weather was a little cold, and the breeze brisk. The air he breathed in was cool as mint.
He really liked this window sill. There were no security bars, and the sill was attached to the radiator cupboard, almost like a window nook. It was very comfortable to lie down and sunbathe there in the afternoon.
The kid that everyone wanted to see had yet to pass by.
But it was about time. Every day, he would pass by a little later than the other students — perhaps because he didn’t want to leave at the same time as his classmates, or perhaps because he would be waylaid at school and couldn’t leave on time.
Yan Hang set his phone on the window seat facing the outside, neither looking at the screen nor making a sound.
After two to three minutes, a few uniform-clad students walked past, throwing a school bag back and forth.
Yan Hang grabbed his phone and pointed it in their direction. “Here they come. Let’s see what these deadwood disgraces to the nation are going to do today.”
Behind the students pitching the school bag was a small, short one. Several remarks drifted across the screen — [seems peaceful today?]
“It’s not,” spoke Yan Hang. “That’s his bag.”
The school bag was old, changing shape as it was pitched back and forth – first squarish, then long, then diagonal. Every time the bag arced through the air, another book or pen fell out.
But today, the deadwood students were a little gentler than usual, not hitting him.
The main character of the livestream followed quietly behind, occasionally bending down to pick something up.
He didn’t even look at his bag, nor the ones throwing his bag around and yelling at him. It was as if they didn’t exist. He simply walked on, hands full of his things, standing aside whenever they stopped.
The bag didn’t have much in it; it emptied after being thrown around for two minutes. The students tossed it aside. One slapped his stuff from his hands, scattering them across the ground. The group happily trod on them before going on their way.
The child squatted down to pick up his things. Yan Hang leapt down from the window and back into the house.
[Not streaming anymore?]
Came a question on the screen.
“Nope,” said Yan Hang. “Too depressing.”
Without looking at the screen, he exited straight away, tossed the phone aside, and leaned back in his chair.
Judging from the uniforms, they must’ve been lower secondary students from the nearby 82nd Secondary School. When Yan Hang had gone for a stroll around lunchtime, he lost his way and ended up walking past the gates of 82nd Secondary three times, etching it into his memory.
The school was quite secure. The third time he passed, the school guard came out and glared at him till he was over a hundred metres away. Yan Hang had been tempted to blow him a kiss.
For the past four days — that is, every day since the day he’d moved here, whether it was after noon or evening classes, he would see this flying-school-bag boy being bullied by all sorts of people. The people and the methods they used differed every day.
Yan Hang poured himself a glass of water. For the first time in about half a month, he felt sleepy. Perhaps he was just too depressed.
He glanced at the time, then put on his headphones, closing his eyes and lying in bed.
Do you love me?
Do you need me?
Do you want me?
Do you love me?
He softly hummed along to the music in his ears, adding a single word to the end of every line.
“No.”
Half asleep, Yan Hang heard the doorbell ring. Then came the voice of his father who had disappeared for a day and a half: “I have returned.”
Yan Hang was silent. He was very sleepy.
“Son?” His dad put his things away and called out, “Beloved prince, your royal Highness?”
Yan Hang sighed inwardly. Just as he was thinking of forcing himself awake, his dad walked into his room and called out in a suddenly altered voice: “Yan Hang!”
Before he could blink, he felt his arm being grabbed by his dad and violently hauled upwards. “Yan Hang, what’s wrong!?”
“Fuck.” Yan Hang frowned and opened his eyes. His arm was numb from being yanked and his neck cracked loudly. “If I really was trying to kill myself, I think you’d have extinguished my last breath right there.”
“Why are you in bed at this hour?” Dad asked.
“Sleepy.” Yan Hang looked at him. “You’re in a good mood today, my king.”
“I got some money.” Dad laughed and turned to go. “Get up, we’re going to a restaurant
 oh right, I got you a university English textbook, apparently it’s for English majors and it’s ‘intensive reading’
 no clue what that means, though. Have a look and see if it’s okay?”
“Anything’s okay.” Yan Hang unplugged his ears and got out of bed.
“My son’s amazing. Never been to school,” Dad’s voice came from the living room, “but reading university English books.”
“I graduated from primary school.” Yan Hang leaned against the door.
“True,” Dad nodded, “I kept the certificate. It’s a family treasure.”
“
let’s go eat.” Yan Hang sighed.
Having only moved in a few days ago, they didn’t know any good restaurants. Yan Hang wanted to look them up on his phone, but Dad decided to try their luck.
“We’ll follow this road, turn left, and go to the second restaurant we see. Okay?” Dad said.
“Sure.” Yan Hang nodded.
Dad had always been this way, exploring unknown territory with him. It was a game they’d played over the past decade or so.
Sometimes it ended in pleasant surprise, sometimes in horror.
Sometimes
 painfully.
Like today.
When they were looking to rent, the estate agent had boasted about the house as if it was the centre of the universe. Fortunately, they had many years of renting experience, and could gauge the conditions of the house after some basic questions.
It was in a small, rundown area.
But strangely, the agent hadn’t been too far off. Because when they walked down the road that Dad had pointed out, it turned into a flourishing modern high street.
When they turned left, the second restaurant they saw was a fancy Japanese one.
“What now?” Dad turned to look at him.
“You chose it. Eat it and weep,” said Yan Hang.
“Let’s go.” Dad waved his hand and walked into the restaurant.
He strutted in with confidence. This had happened a fair few times before; Dad was always confident walking in, but not necessarily walking out.
“My prince,” said Dad as he stood on the pavement, rubbing his tummy, “did we eat this meal, or no?”
“We did,” Yan Hang answered honestly.
“Do you remember how much the bill came to?” asked Dad.
“940 bucks. We made a card and loaded 1000 onto it, so we saved 10%,” said Yan Hang. “We spent 846 bucks.” [2]
[2] 940RMB = 135.99USD, 1000RMB = 144.67USD, 846RMB = 122.39USD.
“I guess it wasn’t just me, then.” Dad drew the card from his shirt pocket and passed it over to him. “There’s 154 bucks left, go eat there whenever you want to.”
“How generous.” Yan Hang eyed him, then tucked the card into his trouser pocket.
“Shall we head back?” asked his dad.
“I’ll treat you to noodles,” said Yan Hang.
“Huh?” Dad stared at him. “We just ate almost a thousand yuan’s worth of Japanese food. Don’t you feel like having noodles will be an insult to that 846 bucks?”
“Do you want to or not?” asked Yan Hang.
“Okay okay, let’s go.” Dad pushed him back down the street, “I saw a beef noodle place when we were on our way here
”
The beef noodles weren’t bad at all. Big bowls, a lot of noodles, and most importantly a full layer of large beef slices — very pleasing to the eye.
“This bowl was just 15 bucks,” Dad said.
“Mhm.” Yan Hang nodded as he ate. “Eat first, we can go back and mourn your 1000 bucks later.”
“Alright.” Dad lowered his head and dug in.
When he was about to finish, he raised his head again. “Hey, Hang.”
“Yeah,” Yan Hang responded.
“Do you want to go to school?” asked Dad. “This place doesn’t seem too bad, we might stay for longer.”
“No,” Yan Hang quickly replied.
“Okay.” Dad was blunt too. “I see you reading a lot at home, so I was wondering if you might want to go to school. It’d be good to socialise with people.”
“Two things: I can socialise at work,” said Yan Hang, “and I have never wanted to go to school, not even primary school.”
“True, you even made me ask the school if you could drop out.” Dad laughed. “I got a hell of a scolding from your Ms LĂŒ.”
Yan Hang laughed as well.
Ms LĂŒ was the only teacher he could still remember. She was an exceptionally kind old lady. The last time they had met was at his primary school graduation.
The old lady frankly expressed her dissatisfaction towards his father.
“Such a good child,” she said, “I worry that your father will raise you poorly.”
Not long after they got home, Dad left again without saying where he was going.
Yan Hang didn’t ask either. In all these years, he had never asked what his dad was up to when he appeared and disappeared without rhyme or reason.
Dad always came back anyway.
He was used to it.
Dad simultaneously gave him a strong sense of security, as well as a deep insecurity.
He tidied up the house a little. Since they might be staying for a while, it was better to unpack and arrange things.
He didn’t have many things: a trunk full of clothes and a bag of random playthings.
Dad had even fewer things. There were only the few garments in his suitcase. Sometimes he felt as if Dad’s life was a vacation, and a short one at that.
He couldn’t even count how many places he and Dad had been to together, how many times they’d changed addresses. Sometimes they didn’t even rent a house, just staying in a hotel; sometimes they’d go back to the same place again and again.
“I wish I could return to that old place,” Yan Hang flopped onto the bed and took his phone out, “I wish I could walk down that old road
” [3]
[3] A lyric from Greenhouse Girl by Cui Jian (掔恄 – èŠ±æˆżć§‘ćš˜)
He had a load of messages on Weibo [4]. Yan Hang cast a glance over them: nothing interesting. He responded to a message asking if he would do another livestream today with a “No” before tossing his phone aside and putting his headphones on.
[4] A Chinese social networking platform.
Recently he’d had bouts of insomnia. Just when he had been sleepy this afternoon, his dad came and yanked his arm.
Yan Hang stared at the ceiling. To make himself sleepy, he listened to rain sounds, to the sound of wind amongst bamboo leaves, to gentle guitar music
 but though he lay till his back was numb, it was pointless.
He got up, put on a tracksuit, and went out.
It was almost 3am at this point. There was no one on the streets, but under the lonely street lights one occasionally heard the sound of a car brushing past.
The end of the street was bustling; at its peak, neon lights dyed the skyline.
But the place he lived was the slum behind the brilliance, as you’d see in many a city. They were two different worlds — or perhaps the slum was like the shadow of the brilliance.
Yan Hang tucked his earphones in and put on running music. He inhaled and began his run.
He quite liked running. It was the best way to kill time.
The route went from the rundown neighbourhood to 82nd Secondary, round the school a few times, then back to the main road. When he passed the Japanese restaurant, he doubled back twice for memory’s sake.
Covered in sweat in the northern breeze after running almost all the roads in the vicinity, he finally went home.
He showered, then looked through his bag and took two pills. Lying on his bed, fatigue overtook him at last – he felt sleepy when he closed his eyes.
Combined with the effects of the medication, he slept till noon.
He’d sat up for almost five minutes before he realised it was noon.
His brain was a bit muddled from sleep and he wasn’t hungry. Yan Hang decided to skip lunch. Grabbing the English book his father gave him, he sat on the window sill.
He sat there till evening, switching back and forth between his book and his phone. He read ten or more pages and watched a meaningless variety show.
It was about time now. Yan Hang messed about with his phone a bit. If the kid hadn’t shown up, he would usually only livestream if he were really bored. But now, it wasn’t just his handful of similarly bored fans; he was a bit curious about the kid himself.
Would he fight back?
How bad did it have to get before he did?
Yan Hang adjusted his posture, leaned against the window frame, and turned his phone on.
It turned out that a number of people were eagerly waiting to watch. In silence, he pointed the camera towards the street. It wasn’t long before the discussion began.
Why were things like this, why didn’t anyone care? Yan Hang sighed.
What’s with all the whys? He stopped asking why long ago.
After a few minutes, the main character of the livestream entered the frame first. This was the first time in the past few days.
He’d been pushed.
The window gave a view of about a hundred metres of road. You couldn’t really see much of the path between there and the school, but these hundred metres were the last bit of road that those lowlifes would walk together before each heading home, so it was always here that the show would reach its climax before ending.
The protagonist staggered two steps forward, then looked behind.
It may have been unconscious, but this was the first time in the past few days that he’d reacted in a way that might be termed “rebellious”.
A few boys walked into the frame and kicked his lower back.
Yan Hang tsk-ed.
It looked serious.
Next, another boy kicked his leg.
From the looks of it, everyone was getting a kick in at a time.
The street food vendors nearby couldn’t stand it. Two of them yelled at the boys.
But it had no effect. A few boys shouted back viciously.
After his days of watching, Yan Hang sort of understood. This kid didn’t fight back. Yan Hang wasn’t sure, but it seemed that his reaction was always calm, as if he was living in another world where he could not hear, see, nor feel.
To the lowlifes, this was the most infuriating response they could receive. In Yan Hang’s experience, they wouldn’t stop until they got a reaction out of him.
When the kick-and-walk was directly across from him, one of the boys pulled a glass bottle from his bag and threw it at the protagonist’s shoulder.
The thick bottle shattered.
“It’s a bit too much today,” said Yan Hang. He pulled his leg up and leapt down from the window.
[Xiao Tian Gege, are you gonna fight] [5]
[5] Xiao氏 (pronounced shyaw-oh) = “Little”. An affectionate suffix to a name. Tian怩 (pronounced Tyihn)= Part of his Weibo username– to be revealed. Gegeć“„ć“„ (pronounced guh-guh) = “Older brother”. An affectionate term for a slightly older male.
[stay safe, maybe just report to the police?]
Several messages flashed across the screen. Yan Hang stuck his hand in his pocket. All he had was his mask – not even a set of keys.
“I dunno,” he said. “I just can’t watch, it’s too awful.”
When he reached the road, Yan Hang finally saw the protagonist’s face for the first time.
He wasn’t wrong. The boy’s face was calm.
Completely, preternaturally calm.
So calm it made one uncomfortable. Whether it was saddening or something else, Yan Hang couldn’t say — with his primary school education, he couldn’t find the right words.
Half the bottle was still airborne. The string attached to the bottle was hooked onto the boy’s finger. Just as he raised his hand to throw the half-bottle at the protagonist’s face, Yan Hang whistled.
It was piercing. Besides spacing out and running, Yan Hang’s best skill was probably whistling.
Dad liked to whistle. Wanting a partner, he made sure that Yan Hang could duet with him before Yan Hang had even gone to primary school. The two used to sit by the road and whistle at girls who passed.
This whistle attracted the attention of the lowlifes. They turned to look at him.
Yan Hang walked over without a word. He placed his phone on a pile of unused bricks, facing the scene, then put on his mask. He had never revealed his face on the livestream — the tradition had to be kept.
The screen went wild. He didn’t have time to look. The lowlifes had turned, and two of them were coming over to him.
“What’s wrong with you?” one of the boys asked, glaring.
“From now on,” Yan Hang pointed, “he’ll be under my protection.”