I took my father's last call and he jumped off the building. Three years later, I was standing on the rooftop where he stood, and my phone rang. On that rainy day three years ago, my father made 13 consecutive phone calls, but I didn't answer any of them. That afternoon, he jumped from the top of the company. Three years later, I lived in a ten-square-meter rental house in an urban village. The walls were moldy and the windows were leaky. During the day, I deliver food, work as a security guard, and ride online for ride-hailing. Late at night, I stare at the photos on the wall—the faces of 12 people, my father's "old friends." My creed is simple: there is no free luck in this world, only life in exchange for chips.
