A year later I'm sitting at an outside table in Five Colour City with the café staff and Preston. The place is a Korean joint, and I'm ordering in Korean while everybody else orders in Chinese. Because I keep switching between languages, I keep getting 1 and 2 mixed up ("一" and "이"). The waitress double-checks, looks at my fingers, doesn't believe my mouth. The staff is saying goodbye to Bob, a college student who worked in the basement this summer. Bad karaoke is coming down from a window above. Many of us want sleep.