When Wang Ming first heard the news about the "Sanbengzi shortage," he paid it no mind. It was just a simply constructed, even somewhat clumsy three-wheeled motorcycle, seemingly out of place in the vast, efficient, future-bound city he inhabited. However, within days, the news spread like a silent plague. First, it was neighbors whispering in the hallway, then colleagues exchanging anxious glances in the office pantry, and finally, even the old man selling savory crepes on the street corner added worriedly while making change, "Heard they're going crazy for them over in America, probably means we'll run out here too."

That piece of news, like a stone dropped into the still lake of time, sent ripples spreading rapidly, eventually reaching the forgotten department where Archivist K worked. The President, during an impromptu remark, had expressed a desire for the miraculous—he wanted to meet the ghost allegedly 300 years old and still on the Social Security system's list. The order descended through layers of bureaucracy, finally becoming a memo with blurred ink placed on K's dust-covered desk. Task: Verify and locate Elias Greene, male, allegedly born 172X, currently still a social security beneficiary.

It began at the supermarket named "Wanjiafu"—though, of course, it might have lain dormant long before, only revealing its true nature during this closing sale. Official records show that during the final stages of the asset inventory, the accountant, a cautious man named Wang who wore reading glasses, checked three times before reporting, with trembling hands: five hundred and seventeen shopping carts had vanished without a trace. Not damaged or abandoned in corners, but completely, inexplicably gone.

The city, this beast built of steel and glass, devours and disgorges streams of people by day, shimmering with tireless neon lights by night. Skyscraper spires pierce the clouds, as if to seize the secrets of heaven, while beneath their shadows, narrow alleys twist like the tangled intestines of the beast, squirming with humble yet tenacious lives.

In one such alley lived a young woman named Ah Mei. Her dwelling, less a room than a forgotten corner, could only accommodate a bed, a table, and a few stubbornly growing potted plants on the windowsill. Yet, Ah Mei's world was not entirely bleak. She possessed a "treasure"—an iPhone 6, its edges worn, its screen bearing fine scratches. In this age where the latest phones are updated like relentless tides, this old machine, in her hands, glowed with a peculiar light.

Old Ma, Teacher Ma, he was almost synonymous with this dusty rural elementary school. For forty years, like an old tree, his roots had sunk deep into this barren land, watching generations of children, like dandelions in the wind, fly off to distant places. Some flew high and far, while others fell back into deeper soil. His hair had long turned from jet black to frost white; chalk dust had whitened his temples and seemed etched into the rings of his life. In three more months, just three short months, he would be able to touch that shore called "retirement." On that shore lay the imagined, deserved tranquility, the meager but stable monthly pension, the finally relinquished pointer, and a throat no longer strained from shouting.

I, Wang Er, work in a peculiar place called the "Adolescent Behavioral and Psychological Adjustment Center's Affiliated Specialized Clinic for School Refusal." The name is as long as a train, rumbling over all your romantic notions of teenage rebellion. Spring has arrived, and the poplar catkins outside drift like snow, but the "spring" here consists of kids sneezing, crying, and stubbornly refusing to set foot inside a school. Their numbers are as plentiful as the pollen spread by spring; rumor has it we're nearing the ten thousand visit mark. It truly is one hell of a bumper year.

Beiping's dust, come Saturday, seemed to carry a hint of rest too, lazily tumbling under the sun. But the earth in Old Wang Tou's heart felt like it had been hardened by last night's wind, compacted, unable to breathe.

He huddled in his palm-sized little room in the South City. Old newspapers were pasted onto the window paper, printed with long-outdated foreign company ads, the words almost faded away. Inside, there was a whiff of stale cooking smoke, mixed with a faint scent of mildew. He just sat like that, facing the creaking wooden door, his gaze blank.

K received the notice on a Tuesday morning. It wasn't handed to him directly but was, as usual, tucked amidst the endless pile of documents on his desk, as if it inherently belonged there. A thin sheet of paper, the printing slightly blurred, exuding the smell of cheap ink and some indefinable official odor. K was an ordinary customs calculation clerk in the Tax Building, responsible for processing import duties for goods from specific regions. He had held this job for many years, long accustomed to the monotony of numbers and the tediousness of regulations, precise as clockwork, and just as devoid of life.

Lao Wang finally got his hands on the car. Not by stealing, not by robbing, but in a way more characteristic of these times—you know the kind. A brand new, gleaming metallic, Bavarian-proud, five-letter iron beast. In theory, this thing symbolized success, at least the greasy kind, the kind others could recognize at a glance. Touching the blue-and-white emblem on the steering wheel, Lao Wang's heart felt like it held a rabbit, one that had just popped some pills, kicking frantically with excitement. The feeling was like the first time he held a girl's hand in his youth, soft and smooth, full of infinite possibilities, as if he was about to do something earth-shattering.

K. felt it necessary to go to the police station. This wasn't out of anger or revenge, although she had every reason to be angry—the man who claimed to be single, with whom she had been involved for nearly a year, the gentle and well-spoken Mr. Z, turned out to be already married. She discovered this purely by chance, as jarring as finding a hair not belonging to her on a clean floor. This isn't anger, K. told herself, it's a confirmation of order, a necessary clarification of facts. Deception is deception, just as two plus two equals four; it was a fact that needed to be recorded.