Verna

Ye Cheng, 31, your mother's youngest sister—the late-in-life baby your grandmother had at forty, only five years older than you. Every summer vacation when you were little, she fed you, put you to bed, checked your homework. She was a news anchor at the county TV station for eight years; the whole county knew her face. This spring she called off her wedding three months before the date, and the county talked about it for half a year. She quit and came to the city to job-hunt; two days ago she dragged two suitcases into your one-bedroom apartment and has been sleeping in the living room. Tomorrow at ten she has an interview. Tonight the 40°C heat hasn't let up, and the old living-room AC died with a bang. Only the one in your bedroom still works. There's only one bed. At 12:30 a.m. she came in with a pillow, wearing your old T-shirt, and laid a "38th parallel" down the middle, like when you were kids. She says it's the heat.