There was an old Chinese proverb he often reminded me of: no one who gets up before sunrise three-hundred and sixty days a year will fail to make his family rich. Chen seemed to live by this. He was the first to rise every day at college, a five kilometre run and forty laps in the pool done before the rest of us even stirred. Not being a morning person, it was one of the few things I hated about Chen. Without my calendar I had to think for a moment; June fourteen—I wondered what the word of the day had been. I didn’t dream again last night, which surprised me; the proximity alone should have been enough to trigger another entry into my own private hell. But my sound night’s sleep may have been the aftereffect of a mickey of scotch split between Chen and I—Glenlivet, a good specimen yet still affordable. I showered, shaved and got dressed; my black suit packed carefully in my overnight bag. I only brought one shirt and tie—Chen made it clear that I would only be here two days.
