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“Uh . . .” Remembering the experiences of last night, I feel a surge of apprehension. Is the cop's visit tied to the finger-talking gathering? I don't think sitting in the dark in large groups and scribbling against one another's palms is illegal, but my instincts tell me to say nothing, to keep this secret.
Don't make trouble
, as my father used to say to me. “I had some beers last night. When I woke, I thought I'd take my motorcycle out for a spin, nothing more. I apologize if I disturbed the neighbors.”

“I see. You were taking your motorcycle out for a spin.” The cop lethargically writes something on the tablet. “I understand a man's need for adventure. Well, that's it, then. You know we don't take those neurotic old ladies' complaints too seriously, but protocol is protocol.” He stands, sticks his cap under his arm, and stuffs the tablet and stylus back into his pocket.

“That's it?” I stand, in disbelief.

“Thank you for your cooperation,” the cop recites, and turns to leave. I follow after him with my whiskey glass in hand. Just as I prepare to close the door, the short policeman turns and raises his black eyes to mine. “Right, you didn't take your motorbike anywhere you shouldn't go, I hope.”

“Somewhere I shouldn't go? Of course not,” I reply quickly.

“Oh, your motorcycle went southeast, out of surveillance camera coverage. You must have come across some really unique little neighborhood. Crime rates may have fallen to their lowest in fifty years, but in my job you learn that there's still all sorts of bad people in this world. Have a nice day, sir.” He pats my shoulder with a not-quite smile, puts on his cap, nods in farewell, and trots down the squeaking wood steps.

I slam in the deadbolt and lean against the door, gasping for breath. Was the cop really on to something? Are the woman and the finger-talking gathering doing something illegal?
That's right. I'm an idiot.
I smack my forehead, remembering that when I met her yesterday, she and her friends were being chased by two policemen.

I need to see her again. The strange and strangely fascinating conversations of the finger-taking gathering ended at three in the morning. The people in black hoodies streamed out of the spartan basement of 289S Eden Road in silence, and I lost her among the crowd. I obeyed the rules of the gathering and didn't call out for her. Later, I realized that I didn't even know her name.

I need to see her again.

7

By the time I log in, Roy has left. I sigh and turn off my computer.

The finger-talking gathering begins at midnight. I've never waited so anxiously for sundown. I stand up, sit down, change the TV channel, sit blankly on the toilet staring into space. I repeatedly check my watch. To while away the time, I take the Bolívar No. 2 cigar I've secreted away for so long out of the humidor. I open the precious aluminum cigar tube, carefully cut the closed end, and light it with a match. I take a deep drag and exhale it slowly. The rich, intense smoke of the premium Cuban cigar makes me dizzy with pleasure, but guilt quickly follows. A thirty-dollar cigar? I don't deserve it. A thing so splendid should remain forever in my crude humidor, to be admired from a distance the same way as the beautiful Kawasaki.

And my motorcycle . . . it functioned less smoothly on the ride home, the engine coughing weakly. I think the aging carburetor's losing efficiency; my old buddy's getting along in years, after all. I ought to use a safer, less traceable method of transportation to go to Eden Road. I turn my mind to that problem, idly clicking the TV remote through channels. The TV shows are as boring as the Internet. None of the topics from yesterday's gathering appeared at all, never mind the accompanying bold discussion and critiques. Impatient and restless, I suck away at my cigar until the stub burns my fingers, then go to my bedroom and dig in my closet until I find a dark blue hoodie from my college years. I put it on, flip up the hood, and walk in front of my mirror.

The wrinkled hoodie bears the image of Steve Jobs—someone this generation of young people might never have heard of—printed in black and white on its front. It fits well: I haven't gained a pound since I graduated. From the depths of the hood floats the bloodless, hollow-cheeked, baggy-eyed face of a middle-aged man. It tries to smile, but coupled with the big brandy nose, the smile looks comical.

This is why I long for the finger-talking gathering. In darkness, no one needs to see your ugly face. All you have is the touch of a fingertip and a thought put into writing. I push back the hood and carefully comb my hair to the right, but I can't cover the balding top of my head no matter what I do.

The sky is finally dark. I stack crackers and cheese, press down, and heat them in the oven. Then I open a bottle of beer and have myself a simple dinner. The cheese gives me heartburn. I can't suppress the pounding of my heart. In my hoodie, I pace in the living room. The TV shows some guy with too much time carrying a massive sign in front of City Hall. The protestor is surrounded by a sizable audience, but no one seems to be joining him. I think I see a few people in black hoodies in the crowd. Is it them? I toss down the remote and pull up my hood, determined to go take a look.

There aren't many people on the subway. A number of them pretend to be watching the commercials on the display screens while secretly sizing me up.

Two teenagers with fashionable mushroom-shaped hair discuss me quietly. “Who's the guy on that old geezer's sweatshirt?”

“Some religious leader, probably. Like Luc Jouret or something.”

“Uh, who's that?”

You're half right, ignorant kids
. I pull my hood lower. In my time, Steve Jobs was as good as a religious leader, until the Internet degenerated into senselessness and everyone tossed aside their complicated smartphones for basic phones that could only make calls.

I arrive at the city square half an hour later. The protestor stands in the middle of the brightly lit lawn. His sign is ridiculously huge, covered with several rows of garishly colored writing. I can't see what it says with my deteriorating vision. Is this a side effect of overdrinking, like the tinnitus? My mother says that my father is blind as a mole now. I can't imagine what he looks like, what remains of his bushy beard, red face, brawny arms, his massive beer belly, and I don't care to find out.

A crowd has gathered to watch him from afar. A few cops are leaning against the side of their police car, chewing gum. Skater kids are showing off their tricks on the steps. In front of a TV van, a reporter and a cameraman are chatting. In contrast, the protestor seems all alone. I walk closer, squinting at the sign. The red text on the top reads,
WOOD-BURNING FIREPLACES ARE THE LEADING CAUSE OF GLOBAL WARMING
. Below it,
FOR EVERY TRADITIONAL FIREPLACE YOU TEAR DOWN, MOTHER EARTH LIVES ANOTHER DAY
is written in blue.

I wrinkle my brow. The First Amendment wasn't made for idle crap like this. Where are the incisive opinions from the finger-talking gathering? I approach the crowd, trying to find the people in black hoodies, but at this time the police come up and ask the protestor to leave for the sake of the grass, and the crowd disperses too. I can't find anyone I recognize. Two cops turn their gazes on me questioningly. One of them points at the portrait on my hoodie, and the other guffaws in realization. I quickly turn and leave.

Without thinking, I ride the subway eastward and get off at the terminal station. I hail a taxi, telling the driver, “289 Eden Road.”

“Eden Road?” the driver grumbles. “I hope you're planning to tip well.”

The car turns onto a side road. The city around us grows more and more run-down, and the streetlights dwindle. When the taxi stops in the middle of the darkened Eden Road, my anxiety and hope rise as one. “Thinking of going elsewhere, pal? I know some good hotels.” The taxi driver takes my fee and opens the door for me.

“No, it's fine. I like quiet.” I get out, shut the car door, and wave. The taxi's taillights brighten, then quickly diminish and disappear into the distance. It's nine o'clock right now, but Eden Road is already silent as a grave. I walk toward the front door of 289 Eden Road with its missing glass panel. After some thought, I open the door and enter.

I know I've arrived too early, but I thought that the anticipation would add to tonight's gathering. Like yesterday, my heart is thumping, but this time it's out of excitement rather than fear. I find the door at the back of the stairs by the light of the wobbly incandescent lamp and turn the brass doorknob. The dark, narrow forty steps appear before me. I've lost my cell phone, and neither do I have a flashlight. I adjust my hood, close my eyes, and walk into the deepening darkness. One, two, three, four, five . . . thirty-nine, forty. There's a wall in front of me now. The stairs double back here. I grope around, exploring with my right foot until I find the next stair. One, two, three . . . thirty-nine, forty. Both my feet are on flat ground. The green door with the brass letter S should be in front of me. Filled with hope, I reach out.

My fingers touch cold concrete.

Have I misremembered? I summon last night's experiences to my mind. There was only this door at the end of the stairs. This door, and nothing else. I'm sure of it. I clearly recall the gleam of the brass S. I shuffle to the left and right, but touch only concrete wall on either side. The place directly in front of the stairs, where the door should have been, is also rough wall. The stairs have taken me to a dead end.

I can feel the blood pounding in my head. My ears feel hot, and the headache is returning.
Calm
, I tell myself.
I need to calm down. Breathe deeply. Breathe deeply.
I take off my hood and suck in a slow breath. The cold, damp basement air fills my lungs, and my overheated brain cools down a little.

Once I've taken a few minutes to calm down, I start to look for the vanished door again, but there are no signs that there has ever been a door here. The rough wall scrapes my fingertips raw. I sit down, despairing.

Where are your friends now?
My father's face appears in the darkness, sneering carelessly.

Shut up!
I yell. I bury my head in the crook of my arm and cover my ears.

I told you, don't make trouble
. My father wipes a trickle of beer from the corner of his mouth. His breath is hot and foul. His arm is around my sister, whose blue eyes glisten with tears. My mother is to the side, crying.

Shut up!
I scream.

You're eighteen now. Get the hell out of my house. Get a job, or go to your goddamn university, but I don't have to let you live under my roof anymore,
my father roars, throwing the suitcase at my feet. My sister hides herself in the kitchen, tears running down her face as she looks at me. My mother is holding a pot; her face is expressionless.

Shut up!
I scream hysterically.

I don't know how much time has passed. You can't tell time accurately in the dark. It might have been a nightmare, or maybe I never fell asleep in the first place. I stand up slowly, letting the wall take some of my weight. I've been curled up too long; every joint cries out in protest. All I want to do is go back to my little apartment, down a big glass of whiskey, no ice, and turn on the TV. Forget my absurd dream from last night. Forget the lingering sensation on my palm. Forget that there ever was such a thing as the ridiculously named finger-talking gathering.

I stride forward. My left foot strikes something. It rolls, then glows to life, a spot of white light illuminating the narrow space. It is the cell phone I lost at the door last night, my ridiculed, one-of-a-kind old-fashioned smartphone.

It wasn't a dream. Strength surges into me instantly. I pick up the phone; the battery is almost depleted, but it's enough to let me properly examine the wall in front of me.
Yes
. This portion of the wall is brand new, troweled together in a hurry with fast-setting concrete. Where the wall meets the floor, I see a wooden doorframe buried in the depths of the crack. The door is there, just hidden by people trying to keep it secret.

I knock on the wall and find that the cement is too thick for me to break through. The people in black hoodies weren't some hallucination. They simply changed their meeting place and forgot to tell me. I comfort myself with that.

I wait there until two in the morning, but no one comes. I climb back up the stairs, walk to the subway station two kilometers away, and hail a taxi back to my apartment from there. Step by step, I climb up the squeaking stairs. My thoughts are in a muddle, but I still need to work Wednesday morning. As I open the door to my apartment, I plan to drink a glass, take a shower, and get some proper sleep.

I freeze at the doorway. Someone in a black hoodie is sitting on my couch.

8

I pick up the e-seal and stamp the social welfare petition on my display: a newly immigrated family with six children. The green indicator light on the e-seal turns red, telling me that I've used up today's approval quota. I relax into my chair and work the cramp out of my wrist. There's still half an hour until my shift ends.

The pretty blond girl who shares my cubicle stands up to invite everyone to her birthday party. “We'd . . . welcome you too, if you have the time,” she says belatedly to me, out of what I know is forced courtesy.

“Sorry, I have an important date the next day. But happy birthday!” I reply. She visibly gives a sigh of relief and puts her hand to her chest. “Thanks. That's a pity. I hope the date goes well.”

To a girl her age, I'm from another generation, and I understand an out-of-place old man at a party can be a disaster. But the date wasn't an empty excuse. I can still feel
her
message on my right palm: “Tomorrow in the city square at 6:00 a.m.”

I don't know how she found me, how she got in my apartment, or how long she waited there. After a moment of surprise, I walked over and took her hand. The neon lights of the strip club flashed through the window, splashing her black hoodie with radiant colors. I still couldn't see her face properly. “Sorry, we changed the meeting place. We couldn't contact you in time,” she wrote.