“All I see is the advancement of society and democracy.Have you thought whether some paranoia-inducing mental disorder may be causing this suspicion toward everything，including the harmonious cultural atmosphere？”The psychiatrist leaned back，fingers interlaced.
“You were young once too，doctor.You once had the courage to question everything.”My voice rose anxiously.“Back then，when we didn’t know who we’d become，but understood who we didn’t want to become.When there were battles and heroes all around us.”
I reminisce sometimes of my youth too.Everyone should.But we’re all grown people now，with responsibilities toward our family，our society，even our civilization and our descendants.I suggest you take these pills regularly when you go home to get rid of your unreasonable fantasies.Find an undemanding job，fish on the weekends，take a vacation once a year.Find a nice girl when the time is right—we haven’t discussed your sexual orientation yet，I realize，please don’t take that the wrong way—and start a family.The psychiatrist put on his glasses，flipped open his notebook，and cut my protests off with a hand before I could voice them.“Now，let’s discuss the problems relating to your father and sister.Your childhood traumas had significant influence on my choices of medication.Is that fine with you？”
The treatment was effective.I gradually grew used to the tepid TV programs and online forums.I grew used to society being peaceful，simple，nice，indifferent.I grew used to seeing the shade of my father，and tried not to argue over things past.Then this person in a black hoodie barges into the monotony of my bachelor’s life and hands me a choice，a choice whose meaning I don’t understand.But I do know that finger-talking has brought me a sense of groundedness I haven’t had in a long time，made the things I felt that had slowly died off eight years ago return from the grave like beetles bursting from their underground cocoons in spring.
I don’t know what“tomorrow in the city square at 6 AM”will signify.Normally，when I’m faced with a choice，I toss a coin.The answer naturally appears as the coin whirls through the air：which side do you hope will land face-up？But this time，I don’t toss a coin，because when I get off from work，leave the Social Welfare Building，I unthinkingly walk in the opposite direction from the subway station.Next to a spinning pole，I push open the glass door.I say to the fat man across from the mirror，“Hey.”
“Hey，long time no see.”The fat man waves me in.“Same as usual？”
“No.”I smile.“Shave me bald.The sexy kind of bald.”
10
I startle awake at 3：40 in the morning and can’t sleep after that.I take a hot bath，change into my Steve Jobs hoodie and khaki pants，put on my sneakers，put in my earphones，and listen to the metal bands of olden days.At 5：00 exactly，I leave Roy a message，drink a cup of coffee，and leave my apartment.The sun hasn’t risen yet.The early morning breeze caresses my freshly shaved scalp，cooling my feverish brain.I take the first subway that comes，unperturbed by the strange looks I get from the sparse fellow travelers.At 5：40，I arrive at the city square.I stand in the middle of the green.The streetlights are bright，and the morning mist is rising.
At 5：50，the streetlights go out.The first ray of dawn illuminates the thin mist.People are slowly gathering.Someone in a black hoodie takes my right hand，and I pick up the arm of the stranger next to me.“Good morning”spreads palm to palm.More and more people are appearing in the city square，silently forming themselves into a growing circle.
At 6：10，the ring stabilizes with more than a hundred people in it.The participants of the finger-talking gathering begin to rapidly transmit information.I close my eyes.A drop of dew falls from the brim of my hoodie.
The person to my right is an old gentleman，by his flabby skin and the refined construction of his sentences；the person on the left is a well-preserved lady with a plump，smooth palm and a large diamond ring on her finger.The topic arrives：“Compared to the gutless bands of today，what bands ought we to remember forever？”
“Metal.U2.And rock and roll，of course.”I immediately add my own opinion.
“The Velvet Underground.”
“Sex Pistols.”
“Green Day.Queen.Nirvana.”
“NOFX.”
“Rage Against the Machine.”
“Anti-Flag.”
“Joy Division.”
“The Clash.”
“The Cranberries，of course.”
“Massive Attack.”
“Hang on，does dance music count？Add Pussycat Dolls，then.”
I grin knowingly.The second topic appears，then the third.I’ve missed this sort of easy，organic discussion，even if it’s via a mode of information exchange out of a kids’game.The fourth and fifth topics appear.My fingertip and palm are hard at work，avoiding typos while trying to use as many abbreviations as possible.I think I’m slowly mastering the skill of finger-talking conversation.The sixth topic appears，followed by the seventh.This seems to be the bandwidth limit for finger-talking gatherings.The commentary appended to each topic would steadily grow until everyone interested has finished speaking.The creator of the topic has the right and responsibility to end its transmission at a suitable time to make room for a new topic.The first and third topics have disappeared.The second topic，on the First Amendment，is still gaining comments.The creators of the other topics independently choose to stop transmitting.Only the second topic is left in the circle，and the participants come to unspoken agreement to stop carrying the topic itself，transmitting the commentary only to save bandwidth.
It’s an inefficient use of the network to transmit only one data packet at a time.Someone realizes this and starts a new topic in the lull.The network is occupied once again，but soon the data clogs up at one of the nodes.
A memory from my distant college years suddenly surfaces.“Let’s look at a now-obsolete network topology structure，”the network systems professor had said behind the lectern，“the token ring network，invented by IBM in the seventies of the last century.”So the finger-talking gathering was really an unscientific token ring network reliant on the members’responsible behavior.I hurriedly finish sending the enormous data packet of the second topic and use the bit of free time to consider how the system might be improved.
A very brief message appears.It’s uneconomical，I think，but its contents make me gape.“To the sexy bald guy：my name is Daisy.”
I can feel the serotonin forming in every one of my hundred billion neurons，the ATP sending my heart pounding furiously.Every living bit of me is jumping and hollering in victory.In the place of this message，I send out：“Hello，Daisy.”
The size of the second topic has slowed down the network so that it takes me ten minutes to receive the data from upstream.It’s clear that someone’s stripped down the commentary to the second topic to the essentials.After the compressed file is my topic“Hello Daisy”and its legion comments.
“We love you，Daisy.”“Our daisy blossom.”“Pretty lady.”Then“hello，Uncle Baldy！”
I recall how I’d looked in the mirror before I let home：my skinny body，drooping cheeks，red nose and comical bald head，my outdated sweatshirt.I look like a clown.I smile.
I’m writing my reply when a commotion ripples through the network.I open my eyes.The sun has long since risen，and the mist has disappeared without a trace.Every blade of grass in the city green sparkles with dew.The members of the finger-talking gathering have formed an irregular circle，linked hand in hand into a silent wall.Many people watch from a distance：morning joggers，commuters on their way to work，reporters，policemen.They look perplexedly at us，because we have no signs，no slogans，none of the characteristics they expect of a protest.
A police car is stopped at the edge of the green，its exhaust pipes billowing white smoke.The car doors open，and cops get out.I recognize their leader，the short policeman who’d interviewed me.He’s still wearing the same apathetic expression and walking in the same careless swagger.He strokes his neat little mustache，considering us，then makes a beeline for me.“Good morning，sir.”He takes off his cap and presses it to his chest.
I look at him and don’t say anything.
“I’m afraid you’re all under arrest，”he says without energy.Six hulking black police vans glide silently into the city square.Riot police in full gear flood out，approaching us with batons and riot shields raised.Our onlookers don’t react at all.No one shouts，no one moves，no one even looks in the direction of the neat marching phalanx of riot police.
I can tell the people beside me are anxious by the sweat on their palms.The second topic’s data package has disappeared.A single short message replaces it，traveling at the highest speed our network can sustain.
“Freedom.”many fingers write rapidly and firmly into many palms.
“Freedom.”Our eyes are open.Our mouths are shut.
“Freedom.”We shout to the black machinery of the government in the loudest form of silence.
“I love you，Daisy.”I send my last message before the riot police slam me roughly to the ground.The network has collapsed.I don’t know if the message will get to Daisy.Where was she in the network？I don’t know.Will I ever see her again？I don’t know.I’ve never really seen her before，but I feel as if I understand her better than anyway.
Don’t make trouble.My father looks down at my squashed face.The riot cop is doing his best to mash me and the lawn into one.
Fuck you.I spit out grassy saliva.
11
I’m getting ten minutes on the phone，and I don’t want to waste them.But beside Slim and Roy，I can’t think of anyone to call.Strangely，Slim spends the call talking about the Arawak language of Jamaica.Roy doesn’t pick up.I put down the receiver，at a loss.
“Hey，old man，how much time do you have left to waste anyway？”The line behind me is getting impatient.
I dial the familiar number without thinking.Like always，the phone rings three times before someone picks up.“Hello？”
“How are things，Mom？”I say.
“I’m well.How about you？Do you still get the headaches？”Through the receiver，I hear the scrape of a chair being dragged over.My mother sits down.
“I’m much better nowadays.And...and what about him？”I say.
