Once, in Beijing, a young girl in a red gown huddled in a doorway. Two potted cucumbers stood to the left of the doorway, vines climbing twined round trellises up the stucco, the few cucumbers skinny in the middle from lack of rain, though it rained now in gusts and sputters, droplets momentarily darkening her gown.

Once, in Beijing, a young girl in a red gown huddled in a doorway. There was scant shade from the clear noonday sun in the inset door. Two cats lay lazily in the sun. She idly stroked one, the calico, under the chin.

Once, in Beijing, a young girl in a red gown huddled in a doorway. Across the street, in a café, a couple talked, tense, a phone on the table between them.

Once, in Beijing, a young girl in a red gown looked for a doorway. There were many in Beijing.