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Summary
Zhao Jing looks up. Ye Baiyi’s staring down at him, fist still cocked, bottle still safely in hand. He looks like he’s chewing something. Words? For a minute it seems as if he’s about to speak, and then he doesn’t; he turns on his heel and pushes through the crowd and disappears.
“Did Ye Baiyi just hit that guy?” someone says.
“Is it a piece?”
“Is this a piece?” somebody else mutters, pointing to the Mike Kelley blanket and its limp, fetal piles of yarn.
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Bookmark Notes:
yet another home run. genuinely such a gift to read anything orange writes, it's all just so good