Bing Daye woke up from the cold.
The moonlight from the window slanted in, casting the shadow of the window lattice on the blue brick floor, like someone using an ink pen to draw a few stiff lines. He sat up suddenly, the back of his head still aching. He reached out and touched, and what he touched was not the soft linen pillowcase in his loft apartment, but a hard wooden board, covered with a thin layer of musty straw.
