Free Dragon Day by Lisa Brackmann Page A

Deleted.
    The samurai avatar stands there for a moment longer. Then he, too, disappears. Pop. Gone.
    I shudder. The real me, I mean. My avatar continues to trot through the deserted town, following the three-legged dog to the path that leads to my house.
    The house looks the same.
    Same stone house, same wooden deck, same pine trees around it. The orange cat sleeps in a spot of sun by the front door. Purrs when I cross the threshold.
    Same as always.
    I go inside. The lights come up as usual. I sit my avatar down on the couch facing the wall-size window that looks out over the animated beach.
    There’s no time for even the giant goldfish animation before the knock at my door—this script has sound, two hard raps on hollow wood.
    I click on the door to open it.
    In the Great Community, he’s called Monastery Pig. My friend, Lao Zhang.
    yili, ni hao, appears in a text box above his head.
    Like me, he never did anything fancy with his avatar. Just cargo shorts, a black T-shirt, and a beanie skullcap—the hat changes, from time to time. I’ve seen him in baseball hats, Mao caps, even in a cowboy hat once. But today it’s the beanie.
    ni hao, I type back.
    His avatar hovers by the couch.
    qing zuo, I say. Please sit.
    He does.
    It’s weird, you know? It’s like we’re sitting next to each other on a real couch and I’m watching the whole thing outside my own body. Staring at a screen. And I know that he’s somewhere—who knows where?—staring at a screen, too.
    what’s going on here? I finally ask.
    i’m coming to beijing. in a week or so.
    why?
    Truth is, I already know why. Or at least what he told me. He said he felt bad about the position he’d put me in.
    it is just time.
    you shouldn’t , I say. it’s not a good idea. anyway, i’m fine.
    i need to , he says. time to finish the piece.
    what piece?
    the performance piece. the big one. made up from all the little pieces. the whole cycle.
    what the fuck?! I type.
    I mean, I know Lao Zhang used to do performance art. Painting himself red and strumming a ukulele on top of the Drum Tower, singing the chorus to Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” Steering a little boat through the Houhai lake with a statue of Chairman Mao in the prow. Whatever it meant. I wasn’t always sure.
    This time I don’t have to know what the new piece is about to know that it scares me.
    don’t do it , I type, pounding the keys. just don’t. it’s not worth it.
    of course it is.
    We sit there in silence for a minute.
    what’s happening here? I type. where is everyone? why are things disappearing?
    i told them they should go. if they build it, they should decide whether to delete it or leave it.
    but why should they go?
    because maybe this is not safe place anymore. or won’t be soon.
    Like after you get yourself arrested for some dumb-ass performance art? I want to scream.
    But I can’t scream. I can only type it with the caps lock on.
    A series of laughing emoticons appears in Lao Zhang’s text bubble.
    i promise it will not be dumb-ass , he says.
    Finally I have to ask it. Even though I kind of hate myself for asking. Because what’s the point? I know it’s not going to end well.
    can i see you? I type. before?
    There’s a long silence. His avatar blinks on the couch.
    maybe not a good idea.
    why? I type. Though I think I already know.
    because maybe they are watching you.
    I snort with laughter.
    Yeah, you think?

Chapter Seven
    â˜…
    Fuck, fuck the fucking fuck.
    I walk out of the coffee bar, and my head’s spinning.
    Sure I’m being watched. By my very own personal spy.
    Do I tell John about this?
    I know Lao Zhang, I say to myself. Whatever it is he’s planning on doing—his final “piece,” I mean—he wouldn’t hurt anyone. He’s not going to try to blow something up or anything like that, right?
    He wouldn’t. That’s