Chapter 40

Sunlight had just begun to smear across the horizon when Zhao Jianguo slowly woke. Last night's lively banquet had ended deep into the night, and the garbage rule in the courtyard lay scattered in disarray, like an uncleaned mess. On the bamboo pole at the main house door, a half-burnt firecracker stub stubbornly hung, as if recounting last night's clamor.

He didn't rush to get up, habitually reaching under his pillow to touch the slightly worn small notebook. He lightly flipped to the newest page, where messy yet crystal-clear writing read: 'Dried sweet potato five catties, coal briquette eighty catties, pickled vegetable jar two.' The handwriting was exactly the same as the hurried note taken at yesterday's wedding, carrying a simple, genuine truth.

He slowly closed the notebook, put on his shoes, and stepped onto the ground. Now, outside, a few figures swayed by the well, their footsteps louder than usual, as if carrying a hidden anxiety; voices were hushed to a whisper, as if afraid the wind would steal their secrets. He knew, as clear as a mirror, that the wind had already shifted.

The most pressing headache right now is the grain ticket. The Street Office issued a notice early this morning: each person gets only fifteen catties of coarse grain per month, with no extra supply. The news spread like a bomb tossed into a calm lake. Jia Zhangshi plopped down on the courtyard gate, shouting at the top of her lungs, her voice like a broken gong: 'This isn't even enough to stuff between your teeth—are you trying to starve us to death?' Xu Da Mao squatted at the wall base, brows furrowed, counting on his fingers nonstop, muttering, 'My family of four—this amount won't last twenty days!' Liu Haizhong, meanwhile, wore a calm expression, arms crossed, chuckling, 'Anyway, there's no oil and fat; eating less saves on trousers and even helps lose weight.'

Zhao Jianguo had no mind to meddle in these neighborhood squabbles. He turned back inside, carefully taking out an old cloth bag from the cabinet, his movements gentle as if afraid to wake whatever treasure lay within. He placed five catties of chopped sweet potato chunks into the bag, then carefully divided them into two portions. One portion he slipped gently into the deaf old lady's door gap, the other he quietly set on He Yushui's windowsill. His actions were as light as drifting rain at night, fearing to disturb anyone. He understood that giving things now couldn't be done openly; it had to be silent and unseen, like performing a good deed that couldn't be spoken of.

His mother Li Xiaohua was boiling that thin gruel in the kitchen, so watery you could see a reflection. Seeing him come and go, she quickly lowered her voice and asked, 'Who did you send it to again? We don't even know if we have enough ourselves, and you're still giving away—aren't you being foolish?'

"Enough to eat, Mom." Zhao Jianguo dumped the rest of the sweet potato into the vat, patted his chest, and said confidently, "I know what I'm doing."

"'You know? Can you count all the mouths in the courtyard?' Li Xiaohua widened her eyes, shouting, 'Just now you helped Sha Zhu finish his wedding, and then Yi Zhonghai collapsed—now you're sticking your neck out again, aren't you afraid people will say you're showing off?'"

Zhao Jianguo grinned, indifferent, saying, "I'm not showing off; I just don't want to wait until I hear someone gasping for air inside before I decide to act—by then it'll be too late!"

Inside, his mother Li Xiaohua heard the movement and immediately coughed twice—that cough was like a signal, warning him not to act rashly.

The famine had just begun, yet life had already lost its former appearance. More and more people came to draw water at the well, not to gulp water heartily but to save those precious coal briquettes. Some carefully saved vegetable-washing water to rinse pots, and even after rinsing they wouldn't waste it, using it to feed the chickens. Poor those chickens, reduced to nothing but bones, their clucks weak and feeble, like an old man long ill sighing.

Qin Huairu crouched at the well's edge holding her child, her face paler than white paper, eye sockets deeply sunk—clearly she hadn't slept well, exhausted by the famine. Seeing Zhao Jianguo, she forced a faint smile, nodded slightly, but couldn't utter a word.

Zhao Jianguo didn't initiate conversation either. He leisurely lifted the bucket and drew water, glancing at the deaf old lady as he passed. He saw the old woman squatting by the well, her hands shaking violently, unable to hold the bucket rope steady. He hurried over to support her, and as he touched her wrist, his heart gave a thump. Her wrist was badly swollen, nails dark, lips pale—clearly she was starving badly. If this continued for a few more days, the old woman would surely collapse.

He hurried back inside, carefully scooping out half a tablet of vitamin C from the medicine box, then, like a thief, ground it into powder and, while no one was looking, secretly sprinkled it into He Yushui's breakfast bowl. He Yushui held the bowl, stunned for a moment, lifted her head, and looked at him with doubtful eyes. He quickly waved his hand, smiling, and explained, 'This is a family remedy said to prevent soft leg disease. If your foster grandma feels dizzy, let her drink some sour cabbage soup, but absolutely avoid raw water, or the disease will find her.'

He Yushui didn't ask further, obediently lowered her head and drank, not even picking out the powder at the bottom of the bowl, showing she trusted him completely.

By the third day, the atmosphere in the courtyard grew even tenser, as if the air had frozen. Xu Da Mao began rummaging through boxes at home, pulling out old clothes to take to the pigeon market to trade for mixed grains, like a traveler in a desert seeking water. Dong Xu squatted at the door gnawing a steamed bun; one bite knocked off a chunk that fell to the ground. A child, quick-eyed and quick-handed, lunged to pick it up, but he slapped it away—a sight that left one feeling uneasy. Sha Zhu, meanwhile, said nothing, still going to the canteen for work as usual, but his food intake had clearly dropped; Ma Dongmei brought him lunch, and he drank not a drop of the soup, showing he too was starving badly.

Zhao Jianguo continued to tally supplies every day without fail. There were still over six hundred catties of sweet potato, a large half-bottle of vitamin C tablets remained, and the coal briquette would last two months of burning. In his mind it was like a clear ledger—he had reserves, yet he kept a calm exterior. He knew he couldn't become the savior who rescues everyone, but he also could not be a heartless person.

That night, just as he lay down, he heard someone knocking at the door. The knock was soft—three taps, a pause, then two more. He knew, as clear as a mirror, who it was.

Opening the door, there stood Qin Huairu. Her hair was disheveled, eyes red like a rabbit's—clearly she'd spent a sleepless night. She didn't enter, just stood silently at the threshold, voice lowered to a whisper with a hint of pleading: 'Zhao Jianguo… He Yushui's foster grandma is about to give out. I… I really have no other way—do you… still have food?'

Inside, his mother Li Xiaohua heard the movement and immediately coughed twice—that cough was like a signal, warning him not to act rashly.

Zhao Jianguo didn't answer right away. He glanced at his parents, then turned and took out a small packet of dried sweet potato from the cabinet, handing it over.

"'Just this once.' He said solemnly, 'Not to be repeated.'"

Qin Huairu took the dried sweet potato, her hands shaking badly, almost dropping it. She didn't cry or thank him, just lowered her head and said in a hoarse voice, 'I know you have connections… I don't ask for much—just a bowl of porridge would do…'

"'There's no porridge.' Zhao Jianguo interrupted her patiently, saying, 'But the inner bark of the old locust tree behind the courtyard can be scraped off and ground into flour, and elm seeds boiled are edible too. I know where there's a wild vegetable patch—I'll leave you a marker later.'

She froze for a moment, then lifted her head to look at him. Zhao Jianguo didn't avoid her gaze, meeting it openly.

"'I'm not a god; I can't save everyone.' He said seriously, 'But I can show you how to survive.'"

Qin Huairu finally nodded, clutching the packet of dried sweet potato tightly, and turned to leave. Her steps were light, as if afraid to wake the sleeping world.

Zhao Jianguo closed the door, leaned against the door panel and stood for a moment. He knew clearly that once he stepped out, there was no turning back. Some would remember his kindness and see him as a great benefactor, while others would resent his secrecy and speak ill of him behind his back. But he didn't care. In this chaotic world, kindness without teeth is no different from feeding a dog!

The next morning he still went to the well to draw water as usual. The deaf old lady could now lift the bucket herself, though her hands still trembled; her complexion was much better than two days ago, like a wilting flower regaining vigor. He Yushui squatted nearby washing clothes; seeing him approach, she lifted her head and smiled—though she said nothing, the smile was sincere.

Zhao Jianguo also returned a smile, set the water bucket down. He saw a locust leaf on the well platform, stepped on, its veins rotted. He bent to pick it up, carefully tucking it into the small notebook, as if treasuring a memory.

At noon, Sha Zhu returned from the canteen holding half a bowl of fried radish peel. He came over and handed it to Zhao Jianguo, wryly smiling, 'Today the canteen changed the menu—less oil and fat. I ladled extra vegetable soup; take it back for your parents to drink.'

Zhao Jianguo didn't decline, took it and said, "Thanks."

"'Thanks for what?' Sha Zhu waved his hand, sincere, 'If it weren't for you, I'd still be bossed around as a fool. You're helping not just me, but the whole courtyard.'

Zhao Jianguo didn't respond to that. He knew Sha Zhu was right, but he didn't want to hear it. He just wanted to live his days peacefully, neither causing trouble nor fearing it.

In the afternoon he made a trip to the pigeon market. Sure enough, grain prices had risen again—one catty of cornmeal now required three industrial coupons plus 1.1 yuan. He didn't buy anything, just walked around and came back. He felt like a small abacus, knowing now wasn't the time to act; he needed to wait for those hungrier people to give out first.

At dinner, his father asked him, "How many more people do you plan to help?"

"'Not many.' Zhao Jianguo took a bite of rice, serious, 'Just a few who won't resort to robbery or theft.'

"'Then aren't you afraid they'll bite you back one day?'

"'Afraid.' Zhao Jianguo set down his chopsticks, solemn, 'But I fear more that one day I'll hear someone gasping their last breath inside and pretend I didn't hear—then my conscience couldn't bear it.'

His mother sighed and said nothing more.

A few days later, Xu Da Mao somehow got hold of half a bag of wheat bran, boiled it into porridge and shared it with the family; the result was that the whole family suffered vomiting and diarrhea, the scene like a small-scale disaster site. Zhao Jianguo went over, took a look, and diagnosed that the bran had gone moldy, saying they needed to drink something sour to counteract it. He gave two vitamin C tablets, without saying much more. Xu Da Mao took the tablets, his face flushed red with embarrassment, as if he had been scolded, and did not even thank him.

Zhao Jianguo couldn't care less about such things. He knew some people are just like that: if you help them, they think you're looking down on them from above; if you don't help, they call you cold-hearted and unfeeling. He only wanted to hold to his own bottom line—do no harm, have no guilt, lend a hand when it's called for, but never drag himself into trouble.

That night he opened the little notebook again, drew a line after "five catties of dried sweet potato," and neatly wrote: "Two catties have been issued, three catties remain." Then he added a line in the blank space: "The bark of the locust tree is edible—scrape off the inner layer, dry it, and grind it into powder."

He closed the notebook and blew out the oil lamp. Outside the window, bright moonlight fell on the freshly painted green door of Dong'erfang, casting a faint light trace, like a silver ribbon.

The courtyard was extremely quiet, except for a child somewhere humming softly twice in his sleep, like a gentle lullaby.

Zhao Jianguo lay down and closed his eyes. He knew that tomorrow morning the wellside would again be crowded with people, the meal ticket would become even tighter, and people would grow thinner. But he also knew he could still hold out for a while.

He wasn't thinking too far ahead; he only thought that tomorrow he should stuff another half catty of sweet potato into the deaf old lady's hand, and meanwhile make a mark at the foot of the old locust tree behind the courtyard.

His hand rested on the edge of the bed, and his fingertip accidentally touched the little notebook.

The corners of the notebook were frayed, like the traces left by time.