Rong Qian had a dream.

In the dream, twelve-year-old Shen Yi sat on the floor hugging his knees, motionless, staring fixedly at the wardrobe door, as though waiting for something.

She watched the head steward, Fu, come in and call to him — and he didn’t respond at all. He neither ate nor drank. The food would be taken away when it went cold, and still he sat there for two full days, until Fu came and patted him on the shoulder and discovered that his eyes had been cried red.

She saw him say, in a dazed, broken voice: “She left… She doesn’t want me anymore…”

“Am I really that unbearable? Is that why even she doesn’t want me anymore…”

“She doesn’t want me anymore…”

The young boy buried his face in his knees. His voice, hoarse and choked, repeated those words over and over — those most devastating words.

He let himself sink into the darkness of a deep abyss, falling endlessly. He didn’t even try to struggle — because the only hand that could catch him, the only hand that could pull him back up, no longer wanted him.

When Rong Qian woke, she found tears at the corners of her eyes. She went and splashed her face with water. Looking at her own worried reflection in the mirror, she let out a deep sigh. “He doesn’t actually think I abandoned him, does he?”

She wanted to tell herself it was only a dream — not real, nothing to overthink — but the dream had felt so vivid and so true.

And refusing to eat or drink, stubbornly sitting in front of the wardrobe waiting for her — that was exactly the sort of thing he would do.

A wave of guilt and self-reproach settled over her heart, making her want to rush over right now and tell him that it was nothing at all like what he was imagining.

The more she thought about it, the more unsettled she felt. She let out a groan of despair: “Ugh! So annoying, so annoying! You little brat! Letting your imagination run wild — who doesn’t want you?!”

In the end, all her worry and all her unsaid words dissolved into a single long sigh.

Rong Qian left home at seven in the morning. She packed light, and didn’t bother waking her father to drive her to the airport. She stepped out of the residential complex and was just about to order a car on her phone when a taxi pulled up right in front of her.

She was about to admire the driver’s sharp eye — then the back window rolled down, and Zhang Hao, dressed in casual clothes, greeted her cheerfully: “Sister Rong! Good morning!”

Rong Qian raised an eyebrow. Once inside the car, she learned that Zhang Hao had already booked his own ticket and planned to accompany her to Beijing.

“Sister Rong, didn’t we say you weren’t allowed to act alone? If Chen Jia hadn’t told me, I wouldn’t have even known you were going to see my Auntie Chen.” Zhang Hao was full of complaints.

Rong Qian was puzzled. “Auntie Chen?”

“Yeah — aren’t you going to Beijing to see Professor Chen and Professor Lu? Professor Chen Shiyi is my Auntie Chen. The exact family connection is a bit complicated.”

That was an unexpected turn. She hadn’t thought Zhang Hao would have any link to the very people she was going to find.

“Don’t worry, Sister Rong. I know Beijing well. Once we land, skip the hotel — I’ve already arranged things with one of my uncles. He has a lot of properties, and he’s got a vacant apartment in the Second Ring Road area that he’s happy to lend us.” Zhang Hao patted his chest and promised.

Rong Qian was taken aback. This kid seemed perfectly ordinary on the surface, but behind the scenes he was apparently a walking network of connections?

What kind of extraordinary relatives did his family have?

Someone wore an expression of effortless nonchalance, blissfully unaware of how smug he sounded: “Our family has a lot of relatives, and we all get along really well. No matter where we travel, we never have to worry about finding a place to stay.”

Alright, alright — message received. She was already feeling the envy. Enough already!

From Shanghai to Beijing is a little over two hours, and with the usual delays, they didn’t arrive until eleven in the morning.

Zhang Hao flagged down a taxi, gave the driver an address, and headed for his uncle’s vacant apartment in the Second Ring Road area.

Rong Qian had initially not wanted the fuss. Her plan was to go directly to see Professors Chen Shiyi and Lu Xuan, and then catch the same-day flight back.

Zhang Hao talked circles around her, saying that getting to see his Auntie Chen wasn’t that simple — you needed an appointment and her agreement first, and that meant staying in Beijing for at least two days.

Out of respect for his being a “man with connections,” Rong Qian grudgingly listened to him this one time.

“Sister Rong, just through that alley and we’re there!”

Zhang Hao walked ahead, rushing eagerly to show her the way, and disappeared around the corner. Rong Qian followed at a leisurely pace — but when she rounded the corner, she found Zhang Hao collapsed on the ground.

Rong Qian’s heart seized. She sprinted over. “Zhang Hao! Zhang Hao!”

Zhang Hao didn’t stir. But Rong Qian suddenly sensed something. She whipped her head around — too late. The iron bar in the black-clad figure’s hand had already come crashing down on her skull.

The blow landed with tremendous force. Rong Qian felt as though her skull had split apart.

In the moment she fell, Rong Qian strained to hold onto the last thread of her consciousness. She reached her hand into the pocket of her jacket, where a photograph was waiting.

The moment she felt the photograph vanish from her hand, Rong Qian closed her eyes with relief.

Rong Qian was jolted awake by the noise.

Nearby, someone seemed to be in a fight. There were sounds of punching and kicking, and cursing and swearing — but not in familiar Mandarin. It was pure, fluent English, as though several Americans were in the middle of a brawl.

Rong Qian opened her eyes with a pounding head. She sniffed — and caught the smell of something sour and foul. She turned her head and found a trash can right beside her.

No wonder. She had been sitting right next to a trash can.

Still dizzy, Rong Qian stood up. She found herself in an alley — dirty, chaotic, and out of the way. This was not the clean side street she and Zhang Hao had been walking down.

The architecture above her was unfamiliar too — a distinctly European style, the old kind from the 1970s. From the surrounding environment, it looked like an abandoned district.

Rong Qian had barely taken in her surroundings when her attention was caught by a group of young Americans at the end of the alley. The reason was simple: they were beating a small boy.

The small boy lay on the ground, curled into a ball, helpless and frightened. Rong Qian hadn’t gotten a clear look at his face yet, but her first instinct was that it was Shen Yi.

“What do you think you’re doing?!” Rong Qian was furious. She let out a shout.

The young men turned. Seeing that it was a Chinese person — and a woman at that — the apparent ringleader, a blond-haired young man, whistled. He swaggered toward her with a smirk, saying something as he came.

Rong Qian was in no mood to bother translating whatever he was saying. Nothing good, clearly. And since he dared to walk right up to her, she gave him a kick first and asked questions later.

The men behind him exchanged a glance, then picked up their weapons and charged at Rong Qian all at once.

And then, from within that alley, a string of screams rang out one after another.

A few minutes later, the blond-haired young man was bleeding from his nose, propping up his companions — all equally battered, faces bruised and swollen, arms and legs broken — as they fled in defeat. Even as he ran, he couldn’t resist throwing a parting threat at Rong Qian: “Damn Chinese woman, just you wait!”

Rong Qian was still seething, and she flung a baseball bat in his direction.

The group scrambled away in a rolling tumble of panic. Rong Qian stood there with her hands on her hips, furious. Anyone who dared lay a hand on her little Shen Yi — she, Rong Qian, would beat them every single time she saw them.

Thinking of Shen Yi, Rong Qian hurried over to check on the small boy who had retreated into the corner.

She crouched down — and found a child with fair skin, a high nose bridge, and blue eyes. An American boy. She had gotten it wrong; this wasn’t Shen Yi.

The realization that it wasn’t him brought a flood of relief. She had clearly let her concern cloud her judgment and mistaken him for someone else. She remembered that Shen Yi had a cool, pale complexion — so in a moment of panic, a mix-up was understandable.

The little boy’s clothes were tattered and he was filthy all over. Rong Qian had just opened her mouth to ask if he was alright — when the boy suddenly scrambled to his feet and bolted. He vanished in the blink of an eye.

Rong Qian stood there, completely at a loss.

Her landing spots each time she crossed over were far too random — like being dropped from a plane with a parachute set to land anywhere at all. At least the first two times she had ended up near the main characters. This time she had landed in what looked like an abandoned wasteland.

The walls were covered in chaotic patterns drawn with brushes and spray cans. The ground was scattered with broken, legless school desks and chairs. Not far away sat a rusted, abandoned car. No matter how she looked at it, this place had the feel of the kind of spot where troubled young men skipped class to hang out in movies.

Rong Qian rubbed her chin, thinking. “Now the question is — where do I even start looking for Shen Yi?”

“And what year is it right now?”

“And how old is Shen Yi now?”

With these three questions in mind, Rong Qian set out on what promised to be a long journey to find Shen Yi.