Kristie, 2082

So far my village hosts had treated me with politeness. No outrageous demands. No talk of ideology readjustment. No punishments. All they asked of me was to sweep the path every morning and to not go beyond the confines of the fence.

I opened the door of the hut and walked out into the cold. I could see, through the window, a woman in her sixties, wrapped in a blue-veined apron, holding a spatula like a weapon. This was Jin, and deeper inside the hut, her husband Zong, sitting cross-legged on a silk cushion, laughed as he listened to the radio adaptation of the Tale of the Water Margin—Outlaws of the Marsh. Together the couple was responsible for my reeducation.

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