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I say, “I thought I was going to study at the Royal Academy?”

My uncle frowns. “Even I cannot get you into the Royal Academy with no skills whatsoever. You are going to have to cram for six months, and then audition. If you don’t get in, I’ll think of something else for you to do. It would be easier for all of us if you are accepted.” He sounds irritated, as though I’ve already failed.

“Of course. I will study hard. Thank you, Uncle.”

He considers. “Is there anything you’re particularly good at?”

“Video games. Maths?” I offer doubtfully. We pass through a gate and are on the road out of the airport. The sky is dark.

“Like your father. How are your parents?”

“Fine. They are very grateful for the help you are giving me, and sorry for all the trouble we have put you to.” My mother made me rehearse this speech with her. It seems to please my uncle. He says, in a softer tone, “They must be in dire straits if they’ve sent you to me.” I don’t know how to reply to this. My mother told me that Uncle Stephen likes to talk about himself, so I ask him how old he was when he came here, and why he chose England? He says, “I was thirty-three. You were eight months old. I came here because I could. Our father was British.”

“Oh? My parents never told me that.”

“No? I was the black child, the extra. Our parents knew that I wouldn’t have a hukou because they were never able to pay the fines for having two children. So they made sure I was born here, so I would at least have a British passport, even if I had nothing else. Your father could claim English citizenship, too. He says he’s not allowed to travel?”

“They were under house arrest until a few weeks ago.”

“I see.” My uncle is quiet for a while. We are moving faster now, on a highway. The city lights seem far away. Uncle Stephen speaks with the driver—in English?—for some time. How will I learn English? The driver says something, and they both laugh. Are they laughing at me?

The cars here are different than the cars in Shanghai. Looking through the tinted windows is like wearing sunglasses at night; it’s difficult to see who is in the cars, but I can tell that some have drivers, though most do not. My parents told me that my uncle is a journalist, but Uncle Stephen seems more like a rich businessman. I didn’t expect him to wear a suit. He turns to me and begins to tell me about his mother, my grandmother, who died before I was born. “She was musical,” he says. “That’s what gave me the idea, that you might be musical, too. Can you sing?”

“I don’t think so,” I say. “Wouldn’t I know if I had any musical talent?”

“We’ll find out soon enough,” he says. My stomach hurts, my head hurts. I would rather not find out if I am musical—not soon, not ever.

We are staying at a hotel by the river, which makes me anxious. The river is near the top of its banks, and I can see that there have been floods recently. The hotel smells of damp. When we check in, two men are repainting a wall in the lobby that has a knee-high flood line.

We are on the seventh floor. Here in London, they have a ground floor and then the next floor is the first floor, so really we are eight floors up. I notice in the elevator that even unlucky-numbered floors have buttons (in our apartment building at home, the fourth floor is number five, thirteen is fifteen and fourteen is sixteen). I point this out to Uncle Stephen, and he assures me that we are on a good floor. The hotel room is small; the bed takes up most of the room. I wonder if there is another room and if there isn’t, where will I sleep?

We eat dinner in the hotel’s restaurant. My uncle translates some of the menu for me. I am not hungry, but I can’t remember the last time I ate, so I order what he suggests, spaghetti with meatballs. It’s not the same as my mother’s, but it’s good.

When we go back to the room, I ask Uncle Stephen about the sleeping arrangements. He is surprised and says that he didn’t think it would be a problem sharing a room, but he is happy to phone the desk and get an extra room. I don’t want to cause trouble, or cost him any more money, so I tell him I don’t mind sharing a bed with him. He seems hurt that I questioned him.

I change into my pajamas in the bathroom. I brush my teeth, and when I see myself in the mirror I am shocked at how unwell I look: there are dark circles under my eyes, and my skin is a little gray. My mother cut my hair short before I left home, so even my hair looks wrong. When I walk into the room, my uncle is already in bed. He’s wearing a T-shirt. His phone is charging on the nightstand, and he is drinking beer from a bottle. The TV is on; he’s watching a news program. The bed is very large. I get in and turn out the light on my side, even though I’m not sleepy. He says good-night, I say it in return. I turn on my side, facing away from him. He turns down the sound of the television, but doesn’t turn it off.

Thursday, October 31, 2041, Tuesday, October 29, 2041, and Friday, July 2, 2055

(Oliver is 13 and 26)

Oliver: I wake up, and at first I can’t remember where I am. The lights are off, but some light comes in at the edges of the windows. Someone is touching my leg. I turn my head slowly. My uncle’s hand is on my thigh—not moving—and he is very close to me in the bed, so close that I can feel the warmth of his body, his breath on my neck. He seems to be asleep. Is he asleep? I start to panic, and then it happens, I cannot help it, my vision blurs, my headache intensifies, and I am suddenly somewhere else—I don’t know when, or where. I vomit the spaghetti onto bare dirt. I am outdoors, at night, near the river. I recognize the hotel where we are staying. There are many tall buildings, though not as tall or as many as in Shanghai. There are few people in sight, but a man sees me and shouts Oi! I start running, but then stop because I have no idea where to go. Then I time travel again—I wish to go home—but I am in an overgrown garden in back of an unfamiliar brick house. It’s early morning; there is dew on the grass. It feels like the future. I crawl behind a wooden shed and hope no one will find me.

I listen to the sound of dogs barking nearby. The garden is very damp and mossy. A man opens the back door of the house. He’s dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt. His feet are bare. He’s walking toward me, holding something in his hands. “Yang Qing, come here,” he says, in Mandarin. “It’s okay.”

I recognize my older self. I have hardly ever seen my other self as an adult, only as another child. I am so relieved that I can’t speak.

I step out from behind the shed, and he hands me the clothes he brought: jeans and a blue T-shirt. They are too big; perhaps they are his. He’s taller and more substantial than me. When I am dressed, I go to him, and he surprises me: he puts his hands on my shoulders and says, “You look terrible.” He hugs me—I never hug my self, ever—but it is a relief. I embarrass myself and begin to cry.

“It’s going to be all right,” he says. “This is the low point. It will get better.”

“I wanted to go home.”

“This is home, in the future.”

“Where are we?” I ask. I dry my tears on the t-shirt.

“This is London, in 2055. I wish I could invite you in, but someone is here that you shouldn’t meet yet.”