Wang Er felt this year's spring was stickier than usual, even the wind carried a dampness, feeling like an unwiped rag against his face. He huddled in his small, north-facing room, staring blankly at the black, square block on the table—what they called a "smartphone." This gadget was his eyes, his ears, and sometimes, it seemed, his brain.
I, Wang Er, work in a peculiar place called the "Adolescent Behavioral and Psychological Adjustment Center's Affiliated Specialized Clinic for School Refusal." The name is as long as a train, rumbling over all your romantic notions of teenage rebellion. Spring has arrived, and the poplar catkins outside drift like snow, but the "spring" here consists of kids sneezing, crying, and stubbornly refusing to set foot inside a school. Their numbers are as plentiful as the pollen spread by spring; rumor has it we're nearing the ten thousand visit mark. It truly is one hell of a bumper year.
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.
My name is Li Ming, an ordinary office worker, shuttling daily through the city's cold concrete jungle. The cubicle is my fortress, and the food delivery app is my armory. I used to think that this was the progress of the times, where with a tap of a finger, delicious food would arrive. That was until a news report hit the surface of my calm life like a pebble shattering a tranquil lake – "Undercover reporter at Huang Men Chicken warns not to order takeout before 11 am."