Time Slip

Einstein's theory of relativity gave intellectual cover to the fantasy of "time travel." In recent years, with novels and TV shows on the subject saturating every platform, many people have entertained the private daydream: if I could travel back to my own past, would I make different choices?

I had never thought that way — but today, it seemed, I had traveled back. Only a few hours, but I was already making different choices.

I walked to Manager Sun's office. "Ms. Sun, I have plans after work today. I need to leave at five, so I may not be able to stay for the full meeting."

My words stopped her cold. She stared at me with an expression of baffled disbelief, as though my declining overtime were the most astonishing thing she had ever heard.

"Well, um — what plans? This meeting is important. I'd like everyone on the team to attend."

Important, right. I had sat through it once already. The whole thing was circular nonsense recycled in a loop.

"Don't worry, Ms. Sun. I'll get the meeting minutes from a colleague first thing tomorrow — it won't affect my work."

I did not answer her question about my plans. What I did after work was none of her business.

She seemed to have never encountered this situation before. After a moment's hesitation she waved me off and let me go.

When the end of the workday came and the rest of the team was slumped listening to Manager Sun's circular rhetoric, I stood up, ignored Sun's displeased stare, and, to the astonishment of my colleagues, pushed open the office door and walked out. I needed to be away from that suffocating place.

I stepped out of the building and drew in a breath of outdoor air — car exhaust mixed with the smell of a barbecue stall. In that moment I was certain: this was reality.

And in reality, there was my wife Ruoli. My son Xiaobao. No desert caves, no giant human faces, no Wu Wei. I walked home with one question running quietly through my mind: should I update the novel? Wu Wei had built up some popularity with readers. Would killing him off hurt my readership?

"Ah!" A shout from somewhere nearby, and then I felt my foot land on something yielding. I looked down: I had stepped on someone's hand. A beggar's hand. His hands were filthy, and the rest of him too — grimy clothes, matted hair covering a grimy face.

The beggar was crouching on the floor of an underground passage, and in its dim light he had practically merged with the dirty ground — genuinely hard to see. I was sorry; I crouched to ask if his hand was hurt and reached for my wallet to compensate him.

The beggar seemed not to hear me. He suddenly shot out both hands and seized my trouser leg. I startled and tried to pull back, but he had me in a grip I couldn't break.

Slowly he raised his head. Through the knotted hair, two eyes looked up at me — eyes I recognized at once. The beggar was Wu Wei. I stood there in shock, unable to move, and then Wu Wei spoke: "Give me some water."

Something collapsed inside me. I wrenched my leg free with all the force I had, stumbled out of the passage, and ran without looking back — ran in suit and leather shoes, fast enough that bystanders turned to stare. Let them stare. Staying alive was my only priority.

The apartment was empty when I got in. I threw myself into the bedroom, locked the door, and leaned against it gasping, heart hammering without stop.

How could it be? A beggar who turned out to be Wu Wei — who spoke the exact last words Wu Wei had said before he died. Wu Wei was a fictional character I had invented for my novel. He had no business existing in the real world.

A bang from outside — the front door opening. Someone had come in. Still shaking, I forced myself to be calm. This was my own home. There was nothing to be afraid of. I unlocked the door and threw it open.

Ruoli and Xiaobao stood there. Ruoli in her white blazer. Xiaobao holding the green box.

The unsettling box still made my skin prickle, but seeing my wife and son calmed something in me.

"Watch Xiaobao — I'm going to shower." She turned and went to the bathroom.

Xiaobao went to his room and opened the box.

A scream came from the bathroom.

I went in and killed the big cockroach.

That night in bed, Ruoli held herself close against me.

But I couldn't sleep. I lay with my eyes open, afraid of what would happen if I closed them — afraid that when I opened them again, whoever was beside me wouldn't be Ruoli.

The clock on the wall ticked on. The night deepened. Beside me, Ruoli gave a soft murmur. A few minutes later she murmured again. I turned to look at her; in the light coming through the window I could see her lips moving. Sleep-talking — the first time I had ever heard her do it. I pressed my ear close to listen.

In a broken, barely-there voice, I clearly made out five words: Give me some water.