In the evening.
The rippling rays of the evening sun shone as it set.
At Jiaomen East, Zhang Ye's rented apartment.
Standing in the open kitchen, Zhang Ye sandwiched his phone between his shoulder and cheek while his hands prepared dinner. He placed the processed fish-flavored pork slices which he had bought from the supermarket into the pan, added some seasoning, then mixed and stirred it all about with the spatula. This person did not know how to cook, but he made do with whatever he could anyway.
Zhang Ye said: "Mom."
"I was still waiting for you to come home for dinner," his mother said.
"Didn't I already send you a text?" Zhang Ye asked.
His mother said: "I just saw it. So you won't be back for a few days?"
