Lend Me Your Name

My name is Chen Mo, silent Mo. When I went to the police station to change my name at the age of eighteen, the policeman stared at the computer screen for a long time. He said: "Chen Hongbing, born in 1968, disappeared in 1996, and has not closed his account to this day. Are you sure you want to change it to this?" I said, "I'm sure." Actually I'm not sure. I just don't want to be called that name anymore—the name that shares the same name, surname, and birthday as the missing businessman. Even the ID photo looks like a 70% portrait, and it looks like he will be checked twice by the police every time he stays in a hotel. In March 2008, I was 28 years old and working as a safety guard in the demolition team of Jiefang Road Trade City. This job was arranged by Lao Chen. He is not my biological father, but my adoptive father. He was already sixty years old when he picked me up. The day he died, there was an IV tube inserted into the back of his hand. He suddenly sat up like a flashback and dug his nails into my wrist. "Go back." He said, "Go back to the Trade City." "Which city are you going back to?" "That city." He stared straight at the ceiling, "Give him your name... Back..." The monitor sounded a shrill alarm. When the nurse rushed in, Lao Chen had fallen back, his lips were still moving, but he couldn't make a sound. I listened closer and heard only the hissing sound of airflow, like a flat tire. Now standing on the top floor of the Trade City, holding a 30-pound pickaxe in my hand, I can vaguely touch the edge of that sentence - it's like looking at a fire through frosted glass, knowing that something is burning there, but not seeing the shape clearly.