When he awoke, Chấn placed his hand above his heart to reassure himself it still pulsed. Sometimes his heart beat so fast he feared it would pop out of his chest. Other times, like now, it beat wobbly and slow, like a rickety old man walking with a cane.
Outside his window, the morning din assaulted his ears like screaming guards in reeducation camps and reminded him of the communist takeover—dishonorable, disruptive, and inept. And it was because of them he was dying.