"So how did it go?"
Xiajun tapped his finger on the table, his mind elsewhere.
"How did what go?" Xiajun asked absently. He looked up and realized Zhang Long was studying him. "What?"
"Have those 'things' been disturbing you again?" he asked, his face suddenly taking on an expression of concern. Xiajun knew at once that he was talking about the ghosts he was so used to seeing. And ignoring. "Did you sleep well? And what about all these bruises on your face? And this big bandage?" Zhang Long poked at it and Xiajun sighed, moving his hand away.
"I'm fine, Uncle," he said, rolling his eyes. "The 'things' haven't been causing me much trouble. And the bruises. . . It's not like it is the first time someone tried to put me down."
Zhang Long furrowed his eyebrows. "And what about the culprit? Did you hand him over to the police?" When Xiajun didn't answer right away, he leaned forward. "You did, right?"
