"Time has slipped between injuries." His fairest, kindest, most generous concession. Now, the truth: granules of time truckled down, watery, lost. He thinks, eyes limpid, there was a time when he might have surprised himself with tolls and tallies, with accountability.

Now, he tells time for the leathering of his skin, the fattening of his husband's silhouette, the trickling of hair on his son's chin, the shadow of corpses behind him. And he barely gives count.

"Wangji, clan Lan." By way of tardive greeting, courtesy like oil in the water of their brimming troubles. A name to every hardship, every harbringer.

Even this msn, watched hawkishly as if a mouse on the field, must bear one. And is it not their privilege, still, to pretend civilisation before fresh hell befalls them? The etiquettes dress even slaughter in silks.