Chapter 58: Porridge from My Hometown

Jason naturally knew he hadn't sold the car.

In fact, after he drove that car to the dealership, the dealership owner was nearly scared out of his wits; his eyes looked as if he wanted to tear him apart alive. He did not, as in the past, pretend to belittle himself, trembling over the car he had stolen, chiding his own carelessness and lack of caution for the damage inflicted on the vehicle, and then offering a pitifully meager figure.

This time, he simply told him to get lost.

In that moment, Jason would have preferred to be soundly beaten as usual, because that would prove the dealership owner at least still had the intention to buy the car.

He could only drive the car out under the other party's demand. He visited a few other dealerships in the East District, and the responses were all the same.

"If you don't want to die, you'd better return this car, because it's too ominous."

Jason was very depressed. Most of the children in the Auto Gang had already gone two days without food. They had no food, no hot water, no clothes, and even their shelter was a dilapidated old house they had found and modified. They were all hungry, tired, and cold.

This winter was colder than ever before. Many children's hands and feet had developed frostbite. They could only wait for him to bring back money, or at least food and hot water, but he couldn't do it. He could only watch his friends freeze to death or starve to death, just like in the previous few winters.

Every year, only a few hundred people in Gotham City die due to crime, but no one knows how many are left half-paralyzed, permanently disabled, or join criminal gangs just to survive. Just as no one knows how many homeless children freeze or starve to death every winter.

Bruce Wayne did his utmost, but the funding from Wayne Enterprises was limited. The land costs for the relief centers and temporary shelters were enormous. Even though the number of relief points increased every year, a large number of abandoned children still became street wanderers each year; their growth rate was too high.

To many, every shelter in these relief points was packed to the brim every winter. The winter food and cotton clothes distributed by each relief center were handed out at light speed. This project was undoubtedly the most effective and the least corrupt charitable activity in Gotham City's relief work.

But Jason and the others were part of the children exceeding capacity. For them, the reality they had to face was right in front of their eyes: relief was limited, while the number of homeless children on the streets was too great.

They had failed to snatch the hope of others entering the shelters to survive; now they could only rely on their own strength to get through the winter.

So, when he saw the gazes of his companions, Jason almost trembled all over. He didn't know if, after he uttered that negative answer, the younger children would simply collapse. He hadn't failed to see this scene; in fact, he had seen it far too many times.

"Help open the door; I'm the cook he hired."

This voice left him stunned, shocked, and made his nearly frozen hands, feet, and body come alive again. He knew he had no money to hire anyone. The person outside might have made a mistake, or perhaps he wasn't the one whose car had been stolen. But maybe, the person who lost the car had really chased him down.

Yet he didn't want to expose this lie, because he saw the look of delighted surprise on his companions' faces. He thought he hadn't seen them smile like this in a long time, and the voice outside didn't sound quite so vicious.

So he dazedly walked to the door, untied that rusty chain, and opened the main gate for the person outside.

An Asian man wearing glasses stood outside the door, wearing only a thin jacket and a pair of jeans. He was younger than imagined, standing outside the door and smiling, a rather gentle smile.

His body was shaking, and his clothes seemed to be completely soaked with sweat and snow water.

It really was him, Jason thought. This is the end. Without me, what will my companions do?

Jason, you really are an idiot.

"Ah, you still have a bonfire, and it's not small either. That's good, that's good." He said with a smile, "I just need to bring the pot and ingredients inside. Please wait a moment."

What was he saying?

Hadn't he stolen the man's car? He had clearly seen it in the rearview mirror; it was this man who had chased him all the way.

Was he really going to cook? Shouldn't he be beating him up?

Jason was utterly baffled. His brain was usually very sharp, and he quite liked cars, machinery, and the like; otherwise, he couldn't have gotten so familiar with several dealership owners. But today, his mind felt as if it had been frozen stiff.

"Quick, come a few people." The man's panting voice came from the side again, "Damn it, I can't carry these bags of ingredients and these buckets of water."

Hmm, this person doesn't seem as strong as me—that's good. At least there's no need to worry about him hurting his companions once he gets inside.

Jason shook his head hard. Only now did a glimmer of spirit appear on his pitch-black little face. He waved to the inside of the house, "Quick, come a few who can carry things, help move them inside."

"Coming, coming!" Several slightly older children had already been unable to hold back. Now that they had Jason's approval, they immediately dashed barefoot out of the broken house's main door at high speed.

"Yes, yes, these bags contain ingredients—you don't need to move them all at once, there are still a few more trips. These buckets contain water, and these bags contain charcoal."

In a daze, Jason and a few others carried the bags, buckets, and the big iron pot from the man's car into the house.

Watching the charcoal fire burn ever more vigorously, Jason now felt as if he were in a dream, feeling unsteady, floating, and unreal. It was as if, since he opened the door, he had been having a dream.

Like that story he had heard, like the little girl who struck a match in her hand and then saw hallucinations—until the smoke smell pulled him back to reality.

"Cough, cough, cough, cough."

Coughing rose and fell, mixed with the man's apology, "Sorry, although it's called smokeless charcoal, since the amount burned is so large, there will still be a bit of smoke—why not open the door?"

The coughing immediately ceased.

This was the first time the charcoal fire in this broken house had burned so fiercely, fiercely enough that every child could feel the warmth. Everyone stretched out their hands and feet, feeling the heat, greedily accepting every bit of the flame's temperature. No one was willing to open the door and continue to expose themselves to the bone-chilling wind outside.

"At least open a crack; it won't be cold." The man sighed, "This porridge still needs to simmer for a while. We must give the smoke somewhere to go—once it's done, we can close the door then."

So the swirling smoke slipped out through the quietly opened crack in the door, leaving only the simple scent of porridge.

It smells so good, Jason thought. Even though this porridge had only simmered for ten minutes, he already thought it smelled wonderful. Or rather, at this moment, any bit of food that could be eaten into his stomach would smell wonderful to him.

"Chef, chef, what kind of porridge is this?"

Hearing this question, the chef's face showed a look of nostalgia.

"It's porridge from my hometown, called Laba."

(End of Chapter)