When Zhong Qirui shook out the last few strands of hair he had left and returned to Indaiatuba, the place he had never stopped missing, everything seemed different, yet somehow nothing had changed. The green sign at the entrance was still as bright as ever. Two more entry and exit lanes and some barriers had been added. Nearly all the old hands were gone, leaving only a handful of longtime employees and a sea of unfamiliar faces from the ground crew.
The headquarters transfer order came out of nowhere, with no apparent intention of consulting him, and told him to leave at once. For someone who had spent a peaceful year in Oman, it was quite a shock. He lay awake night after night, tossing and turning. Brazil had gone through one country manager after another in the past two years; it seemed no one could last six months. What would happen if he went? He kept thinking about one thing: how to take on the mess Chen Wenjing had left behind. He lit a cigarette and, after a long hesitation, called Mr. Tan...
Theme: Any resemblance is purely coincidental
