At midnight, we sat in a small private room on the thirty-sixth floor. I smoked cigarettes while the girl drank beer. Wind poured in through the open window. It was about to rain, earlier than forecasted. The middle-aged men who had been talking loudly next door had left, and the room had become very quiet.

The grilled chicken skewers on the table had grown cold, and the tempura was gradually shrinking. The girl sat across from me, concentrating on studying the English words on the beer can. The mustard-colored light fell on her profile, smeared mascara making the area under her eyes dirty, and her ponytail had come loose. She possessed a disheveled kind of beauty, somewhat sexy. But sexiness didn’t matter at all right now. The girl had chosen this place and the time. Last week she sent me an email asking if I was willing to take on this job. I said: “Sure, but not on the weekend because I need to move.” By Wednesday she sent another email saying she was very sorry, but hoped we could still schedule it for Sunday. Because on weekdays she was entangled with all sorts of trivial matters and had no energy to deal with this. “Please,” she said at the end of the letter, “I’m about to turn thirty.” I agreed and postponed my move by one day.

I arranged to meet her downstairs at the Blue Bird Building. The subway passed through here, and you could feel the floor vibrating beneath your feet. The wind in the corridor between buildings was strong, swallowing the sound of greetings. She said “I’m called Mo Mo” or “I’m called Meng Meng”—I couldn’t hear clearly and didn’t ask again. This wasn’t important at all. The girl Mo Mo or Meng Meng wore a dark blue hooded sweatshirt with the hood pulled up, revealing only half a pale face. Her eyes were very large, and the corners of her taut mouth turned downward. I followed her around to the other side of the building.

“On the thirty-sixth floor.” She pointed out the Japanese restaurant’s window to me. I looked up—those honeycomb-like densely packed windows felt very oppressive. When a body flew out from one of those windows—I imagined that sharp parabolic trajectory—there would probably be an intense sensation of regaining freedom. She looked at me, seemingly waiting for me to express approval of her chosen location. I shrugged and told her everything was up to her. That Japanese restaurant was hidden in this office building with no sign outside, very suitable for men and women having secret meetings. The private room was dimly lit, and the daisies in the bamboo flower vase had begun to wither, emitting a faint fragrance. On the tatami mat by our feet was a pale dark stain, possibly soy sauce, but it made me think of women’s blood. When the server was setting out bowls and chopsticks, the girl said softly to her: “There’s one more person.” Seeing my surprised look, she explained: “My boyfriend.” She lowered her eyelids. “Sorry, I didn’t tell you in advance. We want to… together. Is that okay?” “Should be fine,” I said, “though I’m not completely certain.” The girl asked: “If we pay double, there’s no problem, right? I’m not trying to take advantage of you.” “No need,” I said. “I charge by time—it doesn’t matter how many people.” She smiled. “So what’s the time limit?” “One night, I suppose,” I answered. “He should be on his way,” the girl Mo Mo or Meng Meng said. “Let’s eat while we wait.”

Six months ago, I posted a message on a forum that sold various strange services, saying I was willing to provide a paid service for three thousand yuan: accompanying people who wanted to commit suicide through their final moments before death.

“Suicide requires tremendous courage. Last-minute weakness and retreat are extremely common. I can help you overcome these difficulties, enabling you to act with peace of mind and determination,” the message read. “Death companion”—I even gave this role a name. Initially, many people wrote emails inquiring. Most questions focused on how I could prove I possessed the capability I claimed. I had indeed served as a “death companion” for several people before, but the dead cannot testify. This was a job that would never receive feedback, I explained in my replies. However, many people still didn’t believe it, or perhaps weren’t that eager to die after all—in any case, they didn’t write again. Several others wrote to haggle over price. I really couldn’t understand people who were about to die still going to great lengths to save a few hundred yuan.

In the end, only one boy asked to meet. According to his letter, he was eighteen with leukemia and only had a few months to live. We arranged to meet by the lake in Zhongshan Park. He said when he was five, he went boating on the lake with his parents and dropped a shoe into the water—all these years he kept dreaming about going to the bottom of the lake to find it. I sat on the bench for two hours, but the boy never appeared. Maybe he came and left. It couldn’t have been the fat man who sat next to me for a long time, could it? He ate two hamburgers, two boxes of fries, four egg tarts, a bag of chicken wings, and drank a cup of half-jin Coke. The key was that he ate with complete focus, never glancing my way once. Instead, I kept turning to look at him. When the sun was about to set, I left the bench, rented a boat by the lake, and rowed to the center. I don’t know why, but I felt the boy’s story about losing the shoe was true.

As time passed, fewer people wrote emails inquiring. And I forgot about it. Until the girl wrote. I felt it wasn’t a prank, and even if it was, it didn’t matter. I didn’t mind making a wasted trip. Last time at the lake, after rowing the boat I suddenly wanted to eat a hamburger—I hadn’t had one in ten years—so I went to the nearby Burger King. The beef patty in the hamburger was quite delicious. I went home satisfied.

The girl sat across from me. Between us was a brightly burning alcohol burner. A paper hot pot was boiling on top. Before ordering, she seriously inquired about my preferences, but when actually choosing, she didn’t seem to follow them. She herself didn’t seem to like those dishes either (only ate half a tempura shrimp, then somewhat disdainfully pushed the remaining half to the edge of the plate). The person who loved tempura and organ meat was probably that boyfriend still on the road. She was choosing according to his preferences—an irresistible subconscious habit. So did this mean the person who wanted to die more was her boyfriend?

This troubled me somewhat. Every job has its professional ethics. Like when I worked at the museum, protecting artifacts from any accidental damage was my professional ethic. The professional ethic of a “death companion” should be based on the client’s own strong desire—well, that’s how I saw it.

“May I smoke?” I asked. The air in the private room was stifling, and a severe nicotine craving hit me, making it unbearable.

“Isn’t smoking banned indoors everywhere?”

“When the smoking ban was issued, I thought I’d smoke less, but I ended up smoking more.”

“Mm,” the girl nodded. “It’s like the more you want to live well, the more you want to die.” She turned around and opened the window behind her. Wind rushed in, making her long hair fly wildly. She seemed attracted by something, leaning on the windowsill and looking down.

“When I was little, every time I waved my hand, the lights in the room would come on. I thought I had magic powers, but actually my mom was secretly pressing the switch. Later at a Lantern Festival light show, there was a monkey with frighteningly bright eyes. I kept waving my hands, but it stayed just as bright. I started crying—the first time I realized I was actually very ordinary.” She had her back to me, so I couldn’t see her expression.

I said: “I think all magic is evil.”

“Being ordinary is the most evil thing,” she said.

The room was very quiet, with flames leaping violently on the alcohol burner. For a moment, I almost thought she would suddenly stand up and jump down. She might disappear from before my eyes at any moment—this deep blue clothing, this pale little face, these dreamy eyes. By the time I unconsciously lit another cigarette, she had turned her body around.

“Actually, I really want to try the feeling of flying. But my boyfriend doesn’t like it—he’s afraid of heights,” she said. Only then did I remember that boyfriend’s existence again. Just now, I had really forgotten there was such a person.

“It’s okay,” she nodded as if comforting herself. “I brought lots of pills.”

“Always had a complex about dying together?” I asked.

“How to put it—thoughts of death started when I was very young. But I always felt I couldn’t do that thing alone.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I can do many things alone—eat alone, live alone, travel alone… but I can’t die alone. I always felt that should be something two people do together. A person comes into this world to find another person and leave with them. It seems only that way is complete.”

“Have you found them now?” I said.

No answer. She picked up the beer beside her and took big gulps.

“Tell me about you,” she said after a while.

“Hm?”

“How did you think of doing this?”

“I wanted to do it right after college graduation, but I was busy every day until this year when I got a more leisurely job,” I said.

She wasn’t interested in what job I did now, only asking: “Why did you want to do it?”

“Because in this area—I seem to have some talent, maybe I can help those trapped people obtain release.”

“Talent?” She frowned.

“Mm, I discovered it in second year of middle school.” I lit a cigarette and continued.

That summer afternoon, I was playing basketball alone on the playground. A boy had been watching from the side for a long time—tall and thin, looked a bit older than me, like high school first or second year. He watched silently for a long time, so I asked if he wanted to join. He played quite well, fought hard for the ball, and we both worked up a sweat. When it got dark and I was preparing to go home, he suddenly asked if I wanted to come to his place. He said we could play games, his parents weren’t home. I didn’t want to go, so the boy pleaded with me over and over: “Just for a little while, just a little while, okay?” Finally I agreed. I called home from a phone booth, then followed him. His home was on the top floor of a residential building—two very small, shabby rooms, and there was no game console at all. “You have to forgive me,” he said, “I was afraid you wouldn’t come with me. Want some beer?” He took two Tsingtao beers from the humming refrigerator, plus a dish of fried peanuts. We sat side by side on the narrow cloth sofa, his shoulder almost touching mine. I could feel the springs beneath my butt and smell the sour scent of his sweat. He kept turning his head to stare at me. He might have been gay. I hadn’t failed to consider this, though my understanding of that area was extremely limited. I kept thinking about what I should do if he suddenly leaned over. But he did nothing. We just sat there, silently drinking beer. After a while, he got up, turned off the TV, and went into the bathroom. I sat there alone, continuing to finish my beer. My face became very hot and I started feeling drowsy. But he still hadn’t come out. I knocked on the bathroom door and said I was leaving first. I walked out the door, then turned back and knocked on the bathroom door again. Inside there seemed to be rapid breathing sounds. I stepped back a few paces and charged at the door with force. The door opened. He lay on the floor, his head tilted against the ceramic wall behind him, blood gurgling from his severed artery. I used his landline to call emergency services, then wrapped his wrist with a sofa cover. He could barely breathe but still smiled. “Why?” I asked. He said: “I always wanted to die but didn’t have courage, until I saw you. From the first sight of you, I felt you were very different from others. You have something special that can give people courage and determination to die. Having you beside me before dying, I’m not afraid at all.” He stopped breathing two minutes later.

In high school, I lived in the dorms. Because my relationship with my parents was always distant, sometimes I didn’t even go home on weekends. One weekend, I went to a nearby arcade to play games (after that boy died, I became addicted to video games). A girl was at the machine next to mine catching dolls. I had noticed her because she wore our school uniform. Generally no one wore school uniforms to arcades—if the school found out, you’d get disciplined. Her luck was good that day—she caught a Winnie the Pooh and two rabbits. When I turned around again later, I found her standing right behind me, her eyes hidden by thick straight bangs, looking I didn’t know where. I asked if she wanted to use my machine, and she shook her head. So I put in two more coins, gripped the steering wheel, and continued racing. I performed at a high level that day, nearly crashing into cars ahead several times but miraculously avoiding them all. She stood there the whole time, watching me use up my last game token, then said: “You play really well. Want to get something to eat?” I agreed because I was indeed hungry. When leaving, she left the Winnie the Pooh and rabbits on a nearby seat. I reminded her, and she waved her hand saying they weren’t what she wanted. “I only wanted the giraffe, but I couldn’t catch it no matter what.”

We went to McDonald’s for hamburgers. After eating, she went back to the counter for many packets of ketchup, tearing a small opening and slowly sucking them. Then she talked about childhood things. Specifically, things from when she was one year old. At that time her mother often carried her to a park, let her crawl on the grass, then made phone calls flirting with a man, sometimes bursting into laughter, sometimes suddenly crying. I said: “No one can remember things from age one.” She said but she remembered, and described how once when her mother said “I love you” to that man on the phone, what kind of dress she wore, what color hair clip. She remembered feeling very sad then, already prepared for her mother to abandon her and leave home. But her mother didn’t leave, not until last year when she got stomach cancer, with her and her father beside her at the end. The girl fell silent, slowly sipping ketchup. I asked what she was thinking. She looked up at me, then lowered her head again. After a while she said: “Mm, let’s go.” On the way back, she said: “You don’t need to walk me back.” I said: “I go to the same school.” She was a bit surprised: “How come I’ve never seen you? What class are you in?” I gave my grade and class, saying: “There are over a thousand students in the whole school. Even if you’d seen me, you wouldn’t remember.” She shook her head: “I definitely haven’t seen you.” When we reached school I said goodbye to her, and she suddenly pulled me under a nearby pine tree and stuffed a heavy cloth bag into my hands. I loosened the drawstring and saw it was full of green game tokens. I told her to keep them herself and catch the giraffe tomorrow. She said: “I don’t want the giraffe anymore.” She pushed the bag into my arms and ran away. That night, she hanged herself in the dormitory with a white scarf. Because it was the weekend, everyone else had gone home. Not until Sunday afternoon when her roommate returned and couldn’t push open the door did they find security. Two days later, classmates from the girl’s class held a memorial service for her on the playground, lighting many candles. I walked through those crying girls to the center to look at the girl’s portrait.

“Can we get two more beers?” I asked, stubbing out my cigarette.

The girl Mo Mo or Meng Meng nodded and opened the private room door to call the server.

“Did you use the game tokens she gave you later?” the girl asked, turning her head.

“Mm.”

“Did you catch the giraffe?”

I shook my head.

“Didn’t catch it? Logically wouldn’t a long neck be easy to catch?”

“There was no giraffe. That doll pool never had any giraffes.”

The girl nodded, indicating for the server to open the beer in her hands.

“So then you confirmed your talent?” she asked.

“I was quite troubled at the time. When strangers tried to chat me up, I’d turn and walk away.”

“Why did you change your mind later?”

“Where is your boyfriend?”

“Don’t worry about him, keep talking.”

In college, I went to a southern city. Another autumn, a female classmate invited me on an outing. Four others came along—her boyfriend, a couple, and a lower-year female student. I wasn’t familiar with that female classmate at all and didn’t know why she asked me. But I went anyway. We took a two-hour bus to a suburban reservoir, set up barbecue equipment there. Everyone drank beer, played music on a small tape recorder, and started dancing. That single girl suddenly stopped dancing and asked if I’d take a walk with her nearby. I said: “Better not go, it’s getting dark.” So she asked me to sit with her for a while. We sat by the bonfire. The evening weather turned cool, flames leaping up and down, making our faces burning hot while cold wind still blew at our backs. She reached over her hand for me to hold. Her hand wasn’t cold, but wasn’t warm either—felt like touching a piece of clothing. She asked me: “What will this place be like in twenty years?” I said: “Still a reservoir, I suppose.” She said: “The water will dry up, don’t you know? The earth is almost finished.” I said: “Then witnessing its end wouldn’t be quite nice?” She smiled and said: “Little fool, that would be very painful.” She gazed into my eyes, then leaned over and kissed my lips. The others stopped dancing and laughed, making a fuss. The female classmate who invited me said: “She’s been devoted to you, kept begging me to bring you out.” We started grilling food. That girl ate nothing, always keeping her arm around me, hanging herself on me. Everyone else was teasing us, and I silently drank beer holding my can. After a while, she stood up saying she needed the bathroom. Another girl said: “I’ll go too, let’s go.” I said to that other girl: “Take good care of her.” She laughed and walked away arm in arm with her companion. I had a few more sips of beer, felt upset, and chased toward the bathroom. The other girl was looking for her everywhere, saying after coming out of the bathroom, she found her missing.

The girl Mo Mo or Meng Meng sat there with her arms wrapped around her knees. She had been very quiet, so much so that I periodically forgot her presence. I had never told anyone these things—not because they were secrets, just because no one had ever asked. From lack of telling, those stories had become stiff, like overnight bread.

“Jumped in the river?” the girl Mo Mo or Meng Meng asked softly.

“No, she took the bus home and swallowed a bottle of sleeping pills in her bedroom.”

“Everyone has their preferred way to die.”

“What’s yours?” I asked.

No answer.

“You fell for that girl then, didn’t you?” she asked.

“Not really.”

“Mm, at least your heart was moved. But then you discovered she just wanted to use your power to commit suicide—that must have felt bad.”

“I just didn’t understand why she had to act like she really liked me.”

“She probably hoped you’d fall for her.”

“Does that matter, for someone about to die?”

“Even when leaving, she wanted to take a little love with her.”

“I probably still can’t understand.”

“People always think those who want to commit suicide are heartbroken, feeling nothing matters anymore. Actually it’s not like that. Some people who want to die feel very satisfied at the end, like there’s a voice by their ear saying: ‘Don’t worry, it’s okay, this is nothing, we can all understand.'”

“You seem to have researched this quite thoroughly.”

“I like to understand something clearly before taking action.”

“Have you understood everything now?”

“Mm, just one thing left.”

“What thing?”

“Where people go after they die.”

“Where do you hope to go?”

“Hell is fine too, I just hope there’ll be someone to chat with.”

“Chat about what?”

“I don’t know—about music we liked listening to when alive?”

“What music do you like?”

“Damien Rice.”

“After the female vocalist Lisa left, he became quite mediocre.”

“Mm, he could never write songs like ‘9 Crime’ again.”

“Lisa’s own albums later weren’t great either.”

“They must have loved each other very deeply back then.”

“I suppose? I don’t know.”

“But why would two people who loved so deeply separate? If I found that person, even if we encountered floods or earthquakes, I’d never let go of his hand.”

The private room door opened and the server poked her head in:

“Sorry, we’re closing…”

“Should you call your boyfriend?” I asked.

“He won’t come,” she said. “This is the fourth one—people who agreed to die together but didn’t show up in the end. That’s quite normal, right?” She smiled. “To be honest, asking you to come was also because I really didn’t have courage to wait alone anymore.”

We left the restaurant. The subway had stopped running, but the dark tree shadows under streetlights were swaying, still making you feel the ground trembling beneath your feet. The girl Mo Mo or Meng Meng pulled up her hooded sweatshirt’s hood and retracted her hands into the sleeves. She stared at me as if searching for something on my body. When she finally withdrew her gaze, I wasn’t sure whether she had found it. I waited for her to say goodbye, then I would turn and leave. But she didn’t speak, so when she walked forward, I also started walking.

The wind was strong. I held a cigarette in my mouth and kept clicking my lighter—the flame would spring up then die. She leaned over and cupped her hands, helping me shield the flame. I took two deep drags before getting the cigarette lit. She was secretly staring at me again.

I followed her to the seaside. In this northern city, once autumn arrived, the sea died. The beach that had been full of umbrellas in summer was left with only desolate sand. The road planted with pine trees was pitch black, with the only light coming from a real estate advertisement at the top of a high-rise building overlooking the sea, displaying a huge phone number made of 6s and 8s.

We stood on the beach. The girl Mo Mo or Meng Meng gazed at the sea.

“Did you come see the enteromorpha in summer?” she asked.

“No. I hardly went out in summer.”

“Such a big patch, especially green—the sea really looked like it had a grassland. Some children were playing ball there. I bought a tent, wanting to move there and live on it. But after just a few days, bulldozers came. Why couldn’t they let it stay there?”

“I heard enteromorpha cookies are delicious,” I said.

“I wanted to drift away with it.”

“Is that your preferred way to die?”

No answer.

The seawater rose up, pushing waves to our feet. She looked down but didn’t move.

“Can I ask a question?” she said.

“Mm.”

“Have you never thought about death?”

“No,” I said. “Is that strange?”

A huge wave pushed over. Water splashed and shattered on our shoulders. I stepped back two paces, looking at her. She still stood there, not retreating.

I also stood there, to her left rear, seemingly waiting for the next wave to come and carry her away.

The wave came, and she turned to look at me.

The taste of water choking in your throat isn’t pleasant—if she asked, I would honestly tell her. That evening by the reservoir, when I chased to the bathroom and found the female classmate missing, I immediately rushed back to the water’s edge, calling her name. Echoes came from the distance, sharper and thinner, like a fake voice. I took off my jacket and dove headfirst into the water. The river water was ice cold and very heavy. I felt myself sinking. I let myself sink, as if she were down below. When I touched the riverbed, I felt I touched her smooth instep. I held onto it, and the river water wrapped around us. I stopped moving and closed my eyes. But it was still bright before my eyes—I couldn’t cut off my breathing. The water pressed against me, hitting my arms. Just wait a few more minutes, I thought. A few minutes later, I found myself loosening my arms, floating to the surface, swimming toward shore. When I climbed onto the bank, the warmth of that instep still remained in my palm. When I heard the girl had swallowed sleeping pills at home, I felt no sadness at all. I felt we had already said goodbye.

The girl Mo Mo or Meng Meng still stood there. As if somewhat tired of the coming and going seawater, she shook her hair that had been dampened by the waves, moved her feet, and stepped back two paces.

“When will the enteromorpha come again?” she asked softly.

“There was a little boy who played by the sea in summer, then couldn’t be found. When the enteromorpha comes again, maybe he’ll be sitting on it.”

“So cold,” the girl hugged her shoulders.

“Mm. The cold current has arrived.”

“I’m actually a bit hungry.”

“Then let’s get something to eat.”

“This late, what can I eat that won’t make me fat?”

“If you get fat, just be hungry again tomorrow.”

“Can you come here with me again tomorrow? I’ll pay separately.”

“I’m moving tomorrow.”

“Move the day after instead.”

“Come the day after then.”

She followed me back. The tide chased to our feet, then retreated. She put her hands in her pockets and exhaled lightly:

“I really don’t want to just go home like this. Dutifully set the alarm clock, crawl into bed, then wake from dreams to greet another cyclical Monday.”

“Every time I wake up I’m quite happy. Good thing those were all just dreams.”

“Let’s meet directly here the day after tomorrow,” she said when we reached the roadside.

“Dress warmly, it’s going to snow,” I said.

“I also like another Damien Rice song, ‘Rootless Tree.'”

“Mm, that one’s good.” I took a cigarette from the pack. She leaned over and cupped her hands.

When the flame lit up, she sang that song softly. The distant sound of waves was like drumbeats. In a long rest, the sky seemed to suddenly turn white.