Chapter 13: Family Dinner, Disaster Warning

Zhao Jianguo returned from the factory, the ring in his pants pocket still warm, as if the item just signed in hadn't fully faded. He didn't think much, lifted his foot into the Siheyuan gate, his steps just steady when a heart‑rending wail came from the East Room.

It was He Yushui.

The little girl huddled against the doorstep, her face deathly pale, eye sockets sunk, her thin arms wrapped around her knees, crying so hard she could barely catch her breath. Qin Huairu crouched beside her, helplessly patting her back, murmuring "Just hold on, just hold on," her own voice shaking.

Zhao Jianguo stopped, glanced at the sky. It was just past dinner time, but the girl's crying was clearly not a tantrum.

He calmly touched the ring, silently wishing for something edible, and in the next second a small bowl of steaming white rice porridge appeared in his palm, rice oil floating on top, a faint wisp of steam rising.

He walked over, squatted, and handed the bowl to Qin Huairu: "First give the girl something to line her stomach, don't let hunger make her sick."

Qin Huairu snapped her head up, eyes full of panic: "Where… where did this come from? Where did you get it?"

"Don't ask." Zhao Jianguo lowered his voice, "If she ever gets so hungry she can't hold out, bring her to my place for a hot meal—but keep it quiet, got it?"

Qin Huairu's lips trembled, she said nothing, but her gaze shifted—not gratitude, not wariness, but a shudder as if something central had been struck.

She took the bowl, her hand a little shaky, but quickly brought it to the girl's lips. He Yushui smelled the fragrance, lifted her head with hiccups, her tiny mouth clamped onto the spoon and gulped down the porridge in ravenous bites, tears still on her face, yet her strength began to return.

Zhao Jianguo didn't linger, rose and went back to his own room.

Li Xiaohua was setting bowls and chopsticks on the table; seeing him return, she called out: "Wash your hands quick—today we've got stir‑fried cabbage and steamed buns."

Zhao Erniu was already seated at the table, holding a small glass of loose white wine, sipping slowly, his brows furrowed tight enough to trap a fly.

Zhao Jianguo washed his hands, sat, picked up a bite of vegetables, didn't rush to eat, first glanced at his father: "What's up at the factory again? Look at your face, like someone owes you eight hundred bucks."

Zhao Erniu snorted: "Nothing happened, but the rumors are off."

Li Xiaohua chimed in: "No kidding—next‑door Aunt Wang came over for a visit and said her hometown village handed over seventy percent of the autumn grain tax, the rest barely enough to last till spring—hey, Jianguo, did you get what I'm saying?"

Zhao Jianguo almost laughed: "Mom, you just spoke English."

"What English?" Li Xiaohua blinked, "I just meant, barely enough to eat, barely… well, anyway it's just that we almost ran out."

Zhao Jianguo's heart sank. He knew she wanted to say "barely" meaning "scarcely," but hearing that word from a 1950s housewife's mouth felt absurdly heavy.

He lowered his head and scooped a mouthful of rice, saying nothing.

Zhao Erniu set down his cup, lowered his voice: "Old Chen from my factory, a Hebei native, went home a couple days ago and told me they're already eating elm bark there."

Zhao Jianguo's chopsticks stalled.

"Already" again.

He didn't laugh. This time it wasn't funny—it was a chill.

He knew this wasn't an isolated case. Last time Jia Dongxu's daughter had a fever and dared not go to the hospital, he'd pondered—lack of money, couldn't afford medicine, not enough food—none of it was coincidental. But now, even the word "already" could slip from the mouths of honest laborers, showing what? That this was no longer hearsay, but something they'd seen with their own eyes.

Li Xiaohua sighed: "You say life's getting harder and harder—just the year before last everything was fine, how in the blink of an eye we have to gnaw tree bark?"

Zhao Erniu said nothing, just drank heavily.

Zhao Jianguo also said nothing, but his mind began to churn.

He recalled the random junk in the ring—sometimes a tattered book, sometimes a bar of soap, sometimes nothing. Sign‑ins were totally up to fate, supplies arriving unpredictably. But now he couldn't rely on luck any longer.

After the meal, he took the initiative to clear the bowls and chopsticks; Li Xiaohua unusually didn't stop him, just sat there dazed.

Back in his room, he pulled the little notebook from under the bed, opened a page, and with his pen wrote three words in the blank space: Disaster.

Underneath he drew a horizontal line, then wrote:

Sign‑in priority: food items.

Daily fixed‑amount extraction, disguised as purchases.

Win over trustworthy people, build a mutual‑aid network.

After writing, he stared at those lines a while, then flipped to the front and saw his earlier note on Yi Zhonghai—"Control technique to command people, borrow prestige to suppress power."

He stared for two seconds, then suddenly found it a bit ridiculous.

He used to think the biggest obstacle was people fighting people, like Yi Zhonghai, that old fox playing dirty. But now he sees that while interpersonal conflict can be guarded against, if true disaster strikes, no matter how skilled or clever you are, without food you'll still collapse.

He closed the notebook, then touched the ring again.

He needed to change his strategy.

He couldn't just wait for the sign‑in to give whatever and then use it; he had to take the initiative. He needed grain, oil, anything that could stave off hunger. But he also couldn't produce too much at once, or the neighbors' eyes would turn red, and they'd slap an "exploiting the masses" label on him—he didn't want to keep brandishing "counter‑revolutionary" to scare people.

He had to go slow.

He recalled the porridge he'd given He Yushui today, Qin Huairu's look—not gratitude, but shock, the wonder "How could you have this?" She didn't ask, nor did she spread it. What does that show? That she knows boundaries, and she understands the predicament.

This person, we can pull in.

Also Jia Dongxu. His daughter's illness and refusal to go to the hospital show his family is truly destitute. Yi Zhonghai's pressure keeping him from a promotion—he surely senses it. Once he sees the light, he'll be a breakthrough.

Zhao Jianguo leaned against the headboard, his fingers lightly tapping the notebook.

He recalled the movies he watched as a kid, where the hero silently cleans his gun, loads ammo, checks gear before a big battle. Now he has no gun, but he has the ring, his mind, and a slight edge of foresight.

He needed to prepare.

The next morning, he went to the factory as usual, and while passing Yanbugui's home he casually asked: "Uncle Yan, are you still looking for someone to help with your secondhand book business?"

Yanbugui was squatting at the doorway fixing a radio, looked up startled: "Hey, little Zhao? You know about this?"

"I don't know, but I'm willing to learn." Zhao Jianguo smiled, "If you don't mind, I'll help you move things, and in the process learn a few characters—counts as broadening my horizons."

Yanbugui narrowed his eyes, sized him up for two seconds, then nodded: "Fine, this kid's got sense."

Zhao Jianguo also smiled: "Who in our courtyard doesn't help each other out? If you ever need anything, just speak up."

He didn't spell it out, but the meaning got across—I help you, you owe me.

On the way back to the factory, he fingered the ring and silently wished: "Today's sign‑in, give me some rice, or noodles; if really impossible, a packet of compressed biscuits will do."

The result of the sign‑in was a packet of salt.

He froze a moment, then laughed.

Salt's fine too. It's unremarkable, but every household uses it, storing it doesn't draw attention. When the crunch comes, a packet of salt can trade for half a steamed bun.

He stowed the salt, his steps a bit lighter.

Evening, back home, Li Xiaohua was busy at the stove; seeing him enter, she greeted: "How was the factory today?"

"It's okay," Zhao Jianguo put down his backpack, "By the way, Mom, I passed the grocery store today, saw salt was about to go up in price, so I bought two bags on the impulse. Here, take them."

Li Xiaohua was startled: "Where did you get the money?"

"Saved it," Zhao Jianguo laughed, "The soap vouchers the factory issued, I exchanged them for some change."

Li Xiaohua didn't ask further, just nodded: "Alright, put them in the cupboard, and use them sparingly from now on."

Zhao Jianguo replied, but inside he let out a sigh of relief.

The first step was done. From now on, every now and then he'd "procure" something, and gradually the impression that "the Zhao Family has some connections" would take hold. When he was truly starving, he'd steam a couple of buns, claim they were "bought by someone else," and no one dared to probe further.

He sat on the threshold, watching the courtyard grow dark.

He Yushui had stopped crying, leaning in Qin Huairu's arms, nibbling buns bite by bite, eating with great concentration.

Zhao Jianguo stared at her for a while, then suddenly said, "Aunt Qin, if it rains tomorrow, you'll need to quickly collect that quilt of yours; if it gets damp, it won't dry well."

Qin Huairu looked up: "It wasn't forecast to rain today."

"I was just kidding," Zhao Jianguo grinned, "Just a reminder, if you have any difficulty, don't force yourself to bear it."

Qin Huairu was momentarily stunned, said nothing, but her gaze shifted.

Zhao Jianguo gave no further explanation, turned and went back inside.

The oil lamp lit up; he opened his notebook and, under "Mutual Aid Net," silently added two names: Qin Huairu, Yanbugui.

The pen tip paused briefly, and he wrote another: Jia Dongxu.

After writing, he closed the notebook and stared at the lamp wick for a while.

The flame flickered, casting his shadow on the wall like a hand that kept grasping.

He reached out, touched his ring, and whispered, "Must survive."