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side of the road. Most of the people standing on shop steps have either gone inside or left, and the long stream of cars has passed. At the center of what has become a small crowd in the middle of the road, two policemen are taking measurements with a tape measure, while another makes notes in a little notebook. The blood under the wheels of the bus has begun to congeal and is turning black. In the trolley bus with its doors open, the conductress sits by a window staring blankly across to this side of the street. On the other side of the street, the faces in the windows of an approaching trolley bus look out and some people even poke their heads out. People have finished work: it is peak traffic time, and there are even more pedestrians and people riding bicycles. However, shouts from the police and traffic security personnel stop people from going to the middle of the road.
    “Was there an accident?”
    “Was someone killed?”
    “Must have been, look at all that blood.”
    “The day before, there was an accident on Jiankang Road. A sixteen-year-old was taken to the hospital, but they couldn’t save him—they said he was an only son.”
    “Nowadays, whose family doesn’t have only one son?”
    “Ai, how will the parents survive?”
    “If traffic management isn’t improved, there’ll be more accidents!”
    “Well, there won’t be any fewer.”
    “Every day after school, I worry until my Jiming gets home…”
    “It’s easier for you with your son—daughters are more worry to parents.”
    “Look, look, they’re taking photographs.”
    “So what if they are, it’s not going to help.”
    “Did he deliberately run over the man?”
    “Who knows?”
    “It couldn’t have been attached, otherwise it would have been hit for sure.”
    “I was just passing by.”
    “Some drivers drive like maniacs, and aggressively. If you don’t get out of the way, they certainly won’t make way for you!”
    “There are people who work off their frustrations by killing people, so anyone could be a victim.”
    “It’s hard to guard against such occurrences, it’s all decided by fate. In my old village there was a carpenter. He was good at his trade but he liked to drink. Once he was building someone a house and, on his way home at night, rotten drunk, he tripped and cracked his head open on a sharp rock…”
    “For some reason, the past couple of days my eyelid has been twitching.”
    “Which one?”
    “When you’re walking you shouldn’t be so engrossed in thought all the time. Quite a few times I’ve seen you…”
    “Nothing’s ever happened.”
    “If something had, it’d be too late and I wouldn’t be able to bear it.”
    “Stop it! People are looking at us…”
    The lovers look at one another and, holding each other’s hands even more tightly, walk off.
    They finish taking photographs of the scene of the accident, and the policeman with the tape measure takes a shovelful of dirt and spreads it over the blood. The wind has died down completely and it is getting dark. The conductress sitting by the window of the trolley bus has put on the lights and is counting the takings from the tickets. A policeman carries the wreckage of the bicycle on his shoulder to the car. Two men with red armbands get the buggy from the gutter, put it into the car, and leave with the policemen.
    It is time for dinner. The conductress is left standing at the door of the trolley bus and looks around impatiently while waiting for the depot to send a driver. Passersby only occasionally glance at the empty bus stopped for some reason in the middle of the road. It is dark and no one notices the blood covered with dirt in front of the bus that can no longer be seen.
    Afterward, the streetlights come on and at some time the empty bus has driven off. Cars speed endlessly on the road again and it is as if nothing has happened. By around midnight hardly anyone is about. A street-washing truck slowly approaches from the intersection some