Wei Zijin was peeling shrimp for Wang Xiaoliang.
Her phone vibrated inside her bag.
Once, twice, then seven or eight times in a row, as if someone's life depended on it.
"Xiaoliang, check that for me. Who's messaging when it's almost dawn?"
Wang Xiaoliang fished the phone out of her bag. The screen was lit, with a contact labeled Female Writer at the top of her WeChat message list.
He tapped it.
Good grief.
A whole screenful, and it was still scrolling upward. Voice messages mixed with dense blocks of text, all ideas about the interview. Things like, "We could open with my childhood," "Could we add a reading from my novel in the second segment?" and "Make the lighting a little warmer. Cool tones make me look old."
Wang Xiaoliang read one aloud.
"She says, 'I feel the last script treated my life experiences too superficially and failed to reach the depths of my soul-'"
"Stop reading."
Wei Zijin didn't even look up. Pinching the shrimp's tail, she pulled off the shell and set the meat on Wang Xiaoliang's plate.
"And don't reply."
Wang Xiaoliang put the phone facedown on the table.
"This great writer sure is hard to please. Three revisions already, and she's still at it."
Nuomi sat opposite them, looking at her own phone the whole time. At that, she lifted her eyes.
"That's nothing."
She put down her phone and looked up at Wei Zijin.
"Some celebrities are a real pain. A livestream script is only meant to be a rough outline. The boss added a couple of lines on the fly, and the guy's face fell right then and there. On his way out, he tossed out a remark about how completely unprofessional we were."
"Then what?" Wei Zijin asked.
"Then what?" Nuomi's tone