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Seventeen hours after Guoguo died, Gu Mingli video-called me. He was stretched out on a beach chair, the sea behind him. When he saw the hospital room, he paused. "A normal cough, and you check him into a hospital. Using the child to make a scene. You will bear this excessive expense yourself." I looked at him coldly. Our son was dead, and his first words were about accounting. "What kind of expense is the three-million bag you bought Tangtang?" His face stiffened. "They are different." He rubbed his brow. "My brother died saving me. I have to take care of them." "And the group-buy approval system was your idea too. You agreed to it. Why are you competing with them?" There it was again, the same reason. I had heard it for three years. I said, "Gu Mingli, Guoguo is dead." The words landed. He blinked. "What?" "He died at nine last night. I called you ninety-nine times. Your sister-in-law was betting with you that I was lying." The beach behind him blurred as he sat up. "Do not joke about that." "I am not joking." His mouth opened. Then his mother's voice came from somewhere off-screen, sharp and impatient. "What is she saying now? Do not let her ruin the holiday." I hung up.0

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