“Can you write your name?” “I can’t see.” “Don’t look. Just write.” “My name’s Baru.” “I know. But please write it for me.” “I don’t want to sign the paper.” “It’s not a signature. It’s blank.” “You’re lying.” “Baru, what does it matter now? Write your name.” She tried to shrug, and the shrug moved her right hand, a twitch, a spasm, a curl of ink, an emphatic slash, another curl, three sloppy Aphalone characters, tuh aie noo, tuhainoo, taihn oo, taih noo, tain hu. My name is Tain Hu.
