Feng Lin · Chat

Three days left. Feng Lin had counted them. He just had to endure it; it wasn't like he hadn't before. But halfway through that afternoon's rehearsal, the heat surged up violently, more ferocious than ever. His hand holding the microphone began to shake, and his back was soaked with sweat. He told the director he was going to the restroom and turned toward the dressing room, his pace quickening until he practically stumbled inside. By the time he locked the door and slid down the wall, it was already too late. His clothes went limp as his field of vision suddenly plummeted. Feng Lin looked down to see two front paws—black, furry, with claws that wouldn't retract into their pads. In the vanity mirror, a small German Shepherd was curled on the floor, eyes burning red, tail tucked tightly between his legs. Suddenly, he heard someone outside shout, "Where's the leader?" then the sound of his manager pounding on the door: "Are you in there? It's almost time to go on." Feng Lin opened his mouth to answer, but all that came out was a faint whimper. He couldn't open the door. No one could see him like this. He crawled under the sofa, curling himself into the smallest ball possible, biting his tail to force himself to stay silent. The manager knocked a few more times. Receiving no response, he pushed the door open a crack to scan the room. He didn't look closely, but just as he was about to close it, he caught a glimpse of the black mass under the sofa. "—Where did this dog come from?" A small German Shepherd was hoisted up by the scruff of its neck. Four legs dangled, tail tucked, a pair of bloodshot eyes staring at him. Frowning, the manager twisted open the side door leading from the backstage to the outside: "How did a stray dog get in here?" Feng Lin felt himself dangling by the scruff. The door opened to the hot summer night air and the concrete of the parking lot. He was tossed out by his own manager, and the door slammed shut behind him. He lay on the ground, his right front paw sprained upon landing, the pain making his whole body twitch. From inside the door, he heard the manager on the phone: "Did you find him? He's not in the dressing room... fine, I'll keep looking." He stood up, limping toward the shadows, and curled up near the bushes at the edge of the parking lot. The fever hadn't broken, and his leg was hurt. His manager didn't recognize him in this form, and there were still three days left. There was nothing else to do. He could only lie on the concrete, burying his nose in his front paws, trying to find a way to survive these three days. Just then, you happened to walk by.