Feign Compliance

Wyatt Wright wanted to push away the fog and touch the girl's face, but the dream woke him up.

The cell phone was on the bedside table, he picked it up and checked the time, 4:58 a.m.

He got up, poured himself a glass of ice water, and took the glass to the balcony. It was still dark outside. He turned on the light, pulled out a chair, sat down, and held the glass in his hand, the ice cubes clinking and making noise as they jostled and hit each other.

His balcony was not like Miss Watson's, there was no colorful array of potted plants - just a table and a chair.

Lily was sleeping in the living room, but woke up at the noise and meowed twice. She was wearing a new Lolita dress that Miss Watson bought her, complete with a hat of the same color scheme, making her the spitting image of a cat princess. She sashayed to the balcony, rubbed Wyatt's pant leg with her head, then laid down at his feet to continue sleeping.

Before he could finish his glass of water, Wyatt's phone rang, the caller ID showing a string of unknown digits without a saved name.

Wyatt stared at the screen for a few seconds before bringing the phone to his ear.

"Wyatt."

The surroundings were so quiet that he could faintly hear the breathing on the other end of the call.

It was Rae Bennett.

"Why aren't you asleep yet?"

The cup filled with ice water quickly fogged up. When the condensation turned into droplets, they trickled down into Wyatt's hand.

"How do you know I'm not asleep?"

She said, "I'm downstairs, I saw the light on your balcony."

The ice in the cup stopped rattling.

Wyatt put down the glass, walked to the guardrail, and looked down. Rae Bennett was waving from below, wearing a pink helmet, with her electric scooter parked at her side.

He was on the eighteenth floor and couldn't clearly see Rae's face. "You're going out at this hour?"

"Yeah, I'm just so frustrated." She looked up, petite, "Our museum director called me, asking me to come in for overtime work now. I don't want to go, but I can't say no. The museum just received a corpse - the damage is severe. If we don't repair it quickly, it will become much harder to preserve."

Wyatt heard her out but didn't respond.

Worried about disturbing others, she spoke softly, "You should go to sleep, I'm leaving."

In the east, the sun began to rise, a brilliant edge peeking above the horizon. Rae waved goodbye to Wyatt from below, then hung up the phone and pushed her scooter out of the residential area.

Wyatt watched her from above until she was out of sight, then finished his water, set the glass down, and went to the bedroom to grab a jacket.

It was too dark - and it wasn't safe for a girl to be out alone.

At 5:22 a.m., Rae Bennett arrived at the funeral home. As soon as she locked her scooter, she heard Madam Raven calling her.

"Rae."

Rae showed no signs of fatigue from waking up early: "Good morning, Madam Raven."

"Have you had breakfast?"

"No."

Madam Raven took out a corn on the cob and a deviled egg from her bag, "Eat quickly, or you won't feel like it after the body repair is done."

"Thank you, Madam Raven."

Rae rolled the egg over her head, cracking the shell.

Madam Raven watched her eat the egg and nibble on the corn, amused by the resemblance to a hamster.

Before they reached the Plastic Surgery District, they could hear a noisy argument. From afar, several people were standing at the entrance of the Mourning Hall.

It seemed to be a family, and the atmosphere was tense.

Fifty minutes earlier, a hearse had delivered the severely damaged corpse of an old man. He was a delivery worker for a clothing factory, driving his tractor to transport goods before dawn each day.

This time, he didn't return.

Standing in the hallway were his family members - two sons and two daughters.

"So you're saying you won't pay the money?" That was the youngest son, the old man's fourth child.

With the extensive damage to the body, the repair costs would amount to tens of thousands.

"You know the situation on my husband's side of the family," replied the eldest daughter, the old man's second child.

Everyone was crying.

But the argument continued.

Whether out of rage or grief, the youngest son's face flushed red, and his neck bulged: "Is the man lying in there not your father?"

The second child fell silent.

The third child spoke up, "The year before last when dad got his artificial joints, my sister and I each paid more than ten thousand. Last year when dad had surgery, we paid another twenty thousand. When it's time to pay, they come to us, but when they sold the house earlier this year, why didn't they think of us?"

The third child blew his nose, crying uncontrollably.

The youngest retorted, "You are married women—"

Matthew couldn't stand to hear this: "So what if a woman has married off? Have we not supported our elders, or attended to them from the head to the foot of the bed?"

The eldest, who had been silent up until now, finally spoke: "Enough, let's all say less." This was the older people's eldest son.

The argument ceased, and the second and third child, leaning on the wall, cried until they were out of their minds.

At this moment, the fourth child's wife said to her husband, "Should we talk to Mom again about whether we really need to spend this money? After all, isn't the corpse just going to be cremated after it's repaired?"

The eldest heard this but didn't say anything.

Wiping away tears, Matthew retorted, "Sister-in-law of the fourth, is that even a human thing to say?"

"If I'm not speaking like a human, then why don't you pay the money?"

And so, the argument started again.

Don't they love their father? They must, since they were crying so hard they could barely catch their breath.

Does that mean they have no conscience?

Who knows? No one will ever understand another's pain, because it isn't them suffering it.

"Madam," the funeral director was also present.

The deceased elderly man had a surviving spouse, who also came. The little old lady stood at the door of the morgue, very small in stature, with a significantly hunched back.

The funeral director asked her, "Will we proceed with the repairs?"

The old lady took out a passbook wrapped in a cloth from the pocket of her coat, handed it to the funeral director, and then walked to the hearse, touching the body bag, "My old man fears pain, can you be a little lighter when you stitch?"

The funeral director was the softest heart in the entire funeral home; despite being accustomed to such scenes, he was moved every time: "Rest assured."

"Thank you for your troubles."

The old lady, supporting the gurney, called out twice, "Old man."

Rae Bennett tossed away the half-eaten corn cob, put on protective gear, donned gloves, and pushed the cart into the Body Repair Room.

In this room, less than thirty square meters in size, was the epitome of the full range of human life and character.

*****

There was a police office at the entrance of the funeral home, and today Sir Bolton was on duty, glancing outside through the window several times.

That red sports car was still parked by the roadside, with a new scratch on it.

Hands clasped behind his back, Sir Bolton stepped out of the office, approached the sports car, and knocked on the window: "Are you going to bring the car in?"

The car window rolled down.

Sir Bolton said, "If you do, you need to register."

Wyatt Wright replied, "No need."

Then the car drove away.

At the end of North Sanport Street, there was a clock shop that had been passed down through four generations. The shop owner, Matthew Davis, was quite skilled at watch repair, his craftsmanship well-known far and wide.

Matthew, with a bun in his mouth, had just opened the shop when a customer came in, someone Matthew recognized.

"So early?"

This customer always carried a black umbrella, regardless of whether it was sunny or raining. This time, he came by car, with the umbrella left in the vehicle.

"I have a matter to deal with, just happened to be passing by."

He was there to pick up a watch.

Matthew sipped his broth and fetched a key from the upper drawer; he used it to unlock the bottom drawer's lock, took out the watch inside, and placed it on the glass counter.

It was a quality watch but had indeed been through years of wear; the wear on the band was noticeable.

"This watch must have been through some years, eh?"

"Hmm," Wyatt took off the new watch from his wrist and put on the just-repaired old one.

Matthew, being a watch repair man, instantly recognized the one that was exchanged: "Why still wear the old one when you have a new one now?"

The new watch was definitely worth a house.

Matthew knew Wyatt because he had come to repair his watch several times. Each time, it was always that same old watch. The last time, the crystal was shattered, seemingly struck by something, broken so severely that blood remained on the dial.

Logically speaking, this old watch could be discarded. The owner did not look like someone short of money, yet he kept bringing it in for repairs.

"I'm used to wearing it," Wyatt traced the pattern on the band, "it feels odd to wear anything else."

He settled the bill, took a bag from the glass counter, and put the new watch, worth a house, in that flimsy-looking bag before leaving the clock shop wearing the old one.

Matthew couldn't understand him; after all, it isn't often that a man doesn't prefer a new watch.

Sure was a strange person.