The Squeak of a Wheel
Consciousness came to Naina not with a jolt, but as a slow seep into the perpetual twilight of the room.
She was a small island of warmth tucked in the valley between her parents on the big, creaky metal bed. Its old frame, adorned with rusty iron swirls, groaned softly with her slightest movement.
The air was still and carried the faint, sweet-metallic scent of the blue pills that held Mama and Papa captive in their dreams. But the room itself was spotless, the concrete floor swept, the few belongings neatly ordered. This meticulous cleanliness was her quiet rebellion, her domain.
She lay still, listening to the slow, syncopated rhythm of their breathing—a lullaby of absence. Her small finger, pale in the gloom, found the familiar landscape of her mother’s cheek.
The skin wasn’t soft. It was a tapestry of raised, leathery lines, deep and bumpy like the ancient trunk of the cities Great Banyan Tree. Her fingertip traced a particular scar, a deep fissure that hooked the corner of her mother’s lips into a grotesque, permanent rictus.
Naina’s own mouth ached in sympathy, a dull, persistent tightness developing in her cheeks that hadn’t been there a season ago.
She needed to get up. Pushing the thin blanket aside, she placed a hand flat on her father’s stubbled cheek for balance, the cool, unfeeling skin a familiar texture. As she climbed over him, the hard, bulk of her Bit-Block on her wrist, bumped against his nose.
They didn’t stir. They never did. The pill kept them anchored in a deep, quiet place, far away from the windowless room and their daughter’s silent mornings.
The floor was a shock of cold against her bare feet. She dragged the wooden chair into the bathroom nook, the scrape-groan of its legs a stark violation of the silence.
A single, dull yellow bulb hung from a wire, casting a sickly light that pooled in the small space. Climbing onto the chair, she faced the mirror.
A girl with a storm of black hair and large, clouded eyes looked back. Once, she remembered, her eyes had been the colour of a night sky, dark and deep. Now they were a murky grey, like water left standing in a rusty can. The last few specks of her pupils were drowning, fading away day by day, and she didn’t know why.
She brushed her fingers through the snarls, wincing as they caught.
Satisfied, or at least resigned, she climbed down, returned the chair to its post, and retrieved her pink scooter from its hiding spot under the bed. The plastic was chipped, one wheel emitting a forlorn, rhythmic chirp. She unbolted the door, the heavy mechanism thudding softly, and slipped out into the waking world of the Lantern District.
The corridor outside was a tunnel of life, warm and humming after the tomb-like silence of her room. The air was thick and layered—the scent of aged, damp concrete, the sizzle of oil from unseen woks, the cloying sweetness of sandalwood incense clinging to the steam that rose from beneath shutters.
Above, red silk lanterns hung from the curved ceiling of the repurposed train tunnel, their collective glow a bloody, breathing constellation that made the shadows on the pitted walls pulse and dance.
A man stumbled past, dragging a cardboard box overflowing with more folded cardboard. He was laughing to himself, a wet, gurgling sound deep in his chest. Saliva dripped from his stubbled chin, and one hand was clamped white-knuckled around the black clasp fitted around his neck.
Naina’s heart beat a little faster. She fumbled with the Bit-Block at her wrist, its screen flickering to life. A 5 Bit request glowed as she held it out, her small voice a reed in the din. “Bit of help?”
The man’s laughter hitched, his eyes, wide and unfocused, sliding over her without seeing. He let out another wet chuckle and shuffled on, dragging his cargo of shadows. Naina lowered her Block, the brief hope deflating.
She spotted her beacon: a little clay pot of ash cemented to a neighbour’s wall, the stubs of spent incense sticks bristling from the grey powder. A tiny thrill, one of her few genuine joys, shot through her.
She darted over, licked her fingertip, and carefully dipped it into the soft, cool ash. On the dark, painted wood of the door, she drew her signature: two careful dots and a wobbly, curving line. A happy face. Her own small magic, a piece of Lantern graffiti that said, I was here. She smiled at it, the expression a conscious, uncomfortable pulling of muscles, then turned and pressed on, her scooter held close like a shield.
Her first stop was a stall wreathed in steam from a giant metal pot. The old woman there, her face a beautiful map of wrinkles, saw her and smiled, the lines around her eyes deepening into tributaries.
“Ah, mui mui. You are early.” She ladled hot soybean milk into a chipped cup. “Jóusàhn,” the woman said, her voice a soft rasp of kindness.
Naina took the warm cup, the heat seeping into her chilled fingers. “Namaskār,” she whispered, the Hindi greeting a ghost on her lips.
The woman’s eyes twinkled in the lantern light. “Jóusàhn,” she repeated, slower, shaping the word with her lips. “Good morning. Can you say jóusàhn?”
Naina looked from the kind, expectant face to the steaming cup. The Cantonese word felt like a stone in her mouth. She simply took a sip, the warm, plain liquid a comfort in her empty belly. She did not ask for bits here; this was a different kind of transaction.
The woman sighed, a sound not of annoyance, but of understanding. She gave a slight nod. “Go on then.”
Naina handed back the empty cup and moved on, the squeak of her wheel marking her passage.
She scooted into the vast, repurposed station concourse, a cavernous space that served as the district’s heart. It was a forest of hanging, flickering light-bulbs this time, their bare filaments casting a stark, dancing lattice of light and shadow. The very air thrummed with a low, collective energy. Holo-posters flickered and morphed on the tiled walls: a sultry courtesan blowing a kiss dissolved into a stark, defiant political slogan. She passed the gallery of missing faces. One poster showed a young girl, so pretty, her smile frozen in time. But her image was slashed again and again with brutal strokes of black ink, a violence that made Naina stare, her head tilted in innocent intrigue. She didn’t understand the anger, only felt its chilling presence.
Soon, the air shifted, cut through by the best smell in the city: the earthy, sugary scent of roasting sweet potatoes. She knew the source. She stopped a few feet from the rusty drum, its coals glowing like a cluster of orange eyes, and waited.
The vendor, a man with a cheerful moon-face and a vast belly, saw her and his smile widened. “Hungry, síusíu?”
She nodded, a single, sharp dip of her chin.
He wrestled a small, blackened potato from the embers, wrapped it in a scrap of greased paper, and held it out. “Here. For you.”
The paper was wonderfully, almost painfully hot against her palms. As she took it, her gaze was snagged by a man leaning against the wall nearby. His arm looked normal, perfectly grafted to blend with his skin, but a thin, red fluorescent line ran from his wrist to his shoulder, humming with a barely audible energy that **made the fine hairs on her arms prickle. It was a sleek, dangerous-looking scar of light. She stared, frozen, a primal fear rooting her to the spot.
The sweet potato vendor followed her look. “Don’t worry, little one,” he said, his voice dropping as he tried to recapture her attention.
“Mm̀hgòi? Can you say mm̀hgòi?” But Naina was already retreating, clutching the warm potato to her chest like a stolen treasure. She turned and walked quickly away, not looking back.
“Bye bye!” the vendor’s voice chased after her, a friendly echo in the gloom.
Then came the ascent. The staircase was a giant’s rib-cage, each step a cold, ribbed iron bone. She tucked the scooter under her arm, its weight a familiar burden, and began to climb. It was a slow, agonising process of hauling herself up, step by step, her small muscles burning. A river of people flowed around her—men in sharp jackets, women with holo-projected hems, their footsteps a swift, purposeful clatter against her own clumsy struggle. No eyes met hers. No one paused. She was a pebble in the stream, unnoticed.
Finally, she stumbled onto the top landing, her chest heaving, legs trembling with the effort. She pushed through the heavy doors, and the world transformed.
The noise was the first assault—a roaring symphony of mag-lev transports, chatter, and the deep, sub-audible hum of the city itself. The light was harsh and artificial, pouring from towering mega-structures.
High above her, dominating the side of a skyscraper: a colossal, shimmering advertisement for Jeanie & Minnie. They winked and danced, their colours a violent, beautiful explosion against the sterile cityscape. Without a thought, a burst of pure joy made her feet move. She did a little, shuffling dance on the spot, her scooter wagging under her arm. “Tsk, tsk, tsk,” she clicked her tongue, providing a percussive beat to the silent show.
The moment passed. She placed a foot on her scooter and pushed off; becoming a tiny, buzzing spark lost in the vast current of legs and hurrying bodies.
She wove through the crowd, racing the ghost of a floating city tram, before swerving into the familiar embrace of Blue Slide Park.
Her arrival was a ritual. She began with a little jump, testing the rubbery, dark ground. It gave slightly, springing back with a soft thud, as it always did. Her eyes scanned the territory. The huge, azure plastic slide, chipped and scarred, stood as a lonely monument. This was her place. The rain had washed it nearly clean, leaving only the hardiest souls—a few figures huddled on benches, their forms bleary and indistinct.
She found a dry spot and sat, unwrapping her treasure. The sweet potato was soft, sweet, and perfect. As she ate, her eyes, now accustomed to the park’s dimness, continued their inventory. She knew every resident. The man who held muttered conversations with the slide. The woman who traced the cracks in the rubberised ground with a single, obsessive finger.
But today, her inventory revealed an anomaly. A new man.
She stopped chewing, the sweet potato halfway to her mouth. A new face was an event. He was sitting on a bench, and everything about him was wrong. His clothes were smooth and clean, untouched by the park’s grime. He wasn’t slouched in despair or pacing in agitation. He was perfectly still, his gaze sweeping over the scene with a quiet, intense focus, his face a mask of serious thought. He was a question mark in a world of tired periods.
She watched him, finishing her potato, her curiosity a fluttering bird in her chest. He felt different. He saw the park, she realised; he wasn’t just lost in it.
And he had seen her, she was sure of it. The flutter in her chest became an impulse she could no longer contain.
The flutter became an impulse. She got up, climbed onto her scooter, and glided over, the squeaky wheel announcing her arrival as she stopped beside his bench.
He turned. His eyes found hers. He had a nice face, but it was etched with a deep weariness. And his eyes… they were dark, a deep, warm brown. Like hers used to be. A nervous giggle escaped her, the sound twisting unnaturally in her tight throat.
“Namaskār,” she whispered, the word a fragile offering.
“Nei hou,” he replied, and his voice was low and gentle, a sound that didn’t belong here.
She looked right into his strange, real eyes. They were the truest thing she’d seen all day.
“Nice eyes, bhai,” she said, her head tilting with a child’s blunt candour. “Two eyes.”
For a moment, his serious mask dissolved. His eyebrows lifted in soft surprise, and the weariness in his brown eyes seemed to retreat, replaced by a flicker of something warm, something real.
Before the spell could break, before that warmth could vanish and he could become just another adult, she slid off the scooter and pushed away.
