Chapter 41

Before dawn, the mist clung cold to the brick floor of the courtyard. Zhao Jianguo opened his eyes and first felt under his pillow—the worn‑corner notebook was still there; his fingertips brushed the ink‑smudged pages, and his heart eased a little. Last night the wind had blown hard, the window paper fluttering "slap‑slap" all night, so he slept uneasily, dreaming of lining up at the grain station; when it was his turn, the cloth sack tore and white rice leaked through his fingers, making him sweat in panic. Waking, his chest felt heavy, as if a water‑soaked cotton wad pressed on it. He quickly opened the notebook, checking by the faint light from outside: three catties of sweet potato (stored, good for ten more days), half a bottle of vitamin C tablets (one a day, seventeen left), thirty‑four coal briquettes (two each morning and night, enough for a month and a half). The numbers matched, and the tightness in his chest slowly eased.

He carried an iron water bucket to the well; the sky was dim and gray, and a figure was already in the courtyard. Qin Huairu squatted by the well curb, one hand braced on her waist, the other gripping a washboard, her knuckles white as she shivered while wringing out wet clothes. Her fingers were split in several places, blood seeping from the cracks; the cold water made it more visible, and though she pulled her sleeve down, it didn't cover the wounds. In her arms, the child listless, face thin enough to show the cheekbones, breathing as lightly as a kitten.

Zhao Jianguo said nothing, set down his own bucket, and reached out to straighten the rope tangled on the pulley. Qin Huairu lifted her head, forced a smile, her voice hoarse: "Jianguo, why are you up so early?" "You're here too." His gaze fell on her hands: "What happened to your hand? Didn't you get medicine?" "Just wear from work, it's fine." She yanked her sleeve down to cover the splits: "The factory's rushing to sew buttons—we have to hit eight hundred a day, lose a second and the work points are docked. These days, we have no choice but to push ourselves."

Zhao Jianguo didn't ask further. He knew Qin Huairu was still on probation; without permanent status she had no grain ration, and daren't even take sick leave—Jia Dongxu's meager ration had to feed five, the thin porridge in the pot was clear enough to see your face, leaving no money for medicine. He carried the full bucket of water back, already calculating: a couple of bundles of dried sweet potato wouldn't last long; he needed to secure her permanent position—that was the root of it.

At noon Sha Zhu came back from the cafeteria holding a coarse porcelain bowl with a few radish leaves floating in it—the cafeteria's vegetable soup. Zhao Jianguo saw radish peel on his sleeve and green bits stuck under his nails, and couldn't help smiling: "This soup looks hardly oily today." Sha Zhu sat on the doorstep, sighing: "Don't get me started! The lard tin in the back kitchen is almost scraped through; the head cook just dilutes soy sauce with water, a mouthful feels like hot‑pot broth, and it's still not as good as chewing my two steamed buns."

As they talked, Qin Huairu walked past holding her child, steps light as if on cotton. Zhao Jianguo set down his bowl, caught up, and pressed a wrinkled paper packet into her hand: "My mother's medicinal powder—mix with warm water and apply; it'll scab by morning." She stared, wanting to push it back: "No, this little wound…" "If your hands are ruined you can't work; the factory will fire you and the child will be drinking northwest wind?" His voice lowered: "You've been at the factory nearly a year, still a temp; the kid can't get a grain ration—how will you get by?" Qin Huairu bit her lip, her eyes reddening, tears welling: "I'm not unwilling to rely on myself… but as a woman with no connections, how do I speak to a supervisor?" Her voice trembled, even the hand holding the child shook.

Zhao Jianguo's tone softened: "Now I'm here. Getting hired depends on your solid work—I've written up the materials, and I've asked Aunt Li to be the recommender; she has influence at the Street Office." Qin Huairu jerked back half a step, her face paling: "No way! If my mother‑in‑law finds out, she'll say I'm fooling around with an outsider—how could I stay in this courtyard?" "Would you rather watch your child swell from hunger while you cough up blood from overwork?" Zhao Jianguo fixed her with a look: "Being strong is good, but you also have to think of the child." She swayed, then stopped pushing the packet away, fingers clenched around it, knuckles whitening, and whispered: "I… I can't owe you this much." "You don't owe me." Zhao Jianguo shook his head: "You owe yourself a livelihood. Once you're permanent, just buy me a bowl of zhajiang noodles—extra sauce, less veg." She nodded, held the packet, and her steps steadied a little.

Zhao Jianguo went back to his room, took out a stack of paper from the drawer—the top sheet was the "Application for Comrade Qin Huairu to become a regular worker at the Street Garment Factory"; attached below was a work‑time sheet: attendance 302 days, never late; task completion rate 100%, the buttons she sewed never fell off; there was also a recommendation letter written by Aunt Li, saying she "is honest, often helps colleagues cover shifts, quick and capable." He organized the materials, wrapped them in kraft paper, wrote "For Director Wang's personal opening," placed them under the desk calendar, and the calendar also had tomorrow's date circled—the day to submit the materials.

The next morning Qin Huairu arrived. She wore a washed‑pale blue cloth shirt, her hair neatly combed, clutching a document bag, her eyes brighter than the past two days: "I delivered it, placed it on Director Wang's desk when no one was around, and no one saw it." "Good." Zhao Jianguo nodded, "Don't inquire; the quieter the better, I'll tell you first if there's any news." After she left, Zhao Jianguo grabbed his tool bag and went to the Steel Rolling Factory to fix a motor, meanwhile wondering if there were any extra industrial tickets. Passing Dove Market, he saw Xu Da Mao squatting at the Wall Base shouting, "A jacket made of new cotton, eighty percent new, exchange for five jin of cornmeal, not a liang less!" Zhao Jianguo glanced at the patched jacket, didn't stop, and walked straight ahead.

The motor at the Steel Rolling Factory was fixed in ten minutes; the director patted his shoulder and praised, "Jianguo, you're still handy!" An old worker leaned in, lowered his voice, and said, "Jianguo, I've heard the Street Office issued a new policy—half the slots for temporary workers to become regular have been cut, priority given to returned‑city educated youths." Zhao Jianguo felt a thump in his chest; the tension that had just eased rose again.

As dusk approached, he finally returned to the courtyard. Just inside the door he saw Qin Huairu sitting on the threshold feeding a child; the child had a piece of dried sweet potato in its mouth, chewing slowly. Seeing Zhao Jianguo, she paused with the spoon, her voice tight: "Is… is there any news?" Zhao Jianguo didn't answer directly, first glancing at the child: "The quota's been reduced a little, but there's still a chance. Aunt Li has greeted Director Wang; he knows you're good at work. It just depends whether anyone at the factory snatches the spot." Her fingers gripped the bowl's rim, knuckles turning white: "What… what if it doesn't work out?" Her voice was as light as wind, afraid to be overheard. "Then we wait for the next batch." Zhao Jianguo squatted, looking into her eyes: "You do solid work, it's genuine—even if this time you don't make it, next time you'll get your turn—gold shines wherever it is." She said nothing, only pulling the child tighter.

Just as Zhao Jianguo was about to rise, Qin Huairu suddenly called him: "Jianguo… if it works out, I'll give you extra meat in that bowl of fried sauce noodles—double the portion." He smiled and waved a hand: "Sure, I'll remember—just don't go back on your word."

He reached his own door when the deaf old lady came over carrying a cloth bag with a few millet grains stuck to it: "Jianguo, this is two jin of millet I've saved—take it. You're always helping others, but you must also look after yourself." Zhao Jianguo felt a sourness in his nose, wanting to push it back: "You keep it for your own porridge." "I have the dried sweet potato you gave me last time, and He Yushui often comes to help me cook porridge, so I won't go hungry." The old lady patted his hand, smiling until her eyes narrowed. He walked her back to her room, put the millet in the cabinet, and just as he turned around he heard Li Xiaohua laugh and say, "You're collecting things again? Your place is turning into a relief station." "I'm storing them; when I'm hungry someday, a bowl of millet porridge will also be fragrant." He replied, and though he answered, his heart felt warm and cozy.

Zhao Jianguo sat at the desk, opened his notebook, ticked off after "Qin Huairu's regularization application," and added a line: "Materials submitted, awaiting approval. Fried sauce noodles reserved, meat doubled." As he closed the notebook, he heard coughing from outside the courtyard—it was Jia Zhangshi leaning on the wall as she came back, hunched over, her shadow stretching long under the streetlamp.

He knows this matter isn't over yet—the quota is small and competition will surely be fierce—but as long as Qin Huairu's work stands there, he dares to keep pushing forward. He doesn't fear trouble, but fears having no justification; he fears that those who work hard can't even get a full meal.

Outside the window the sky was completely dark; a faint dim yellow light leaked from the Door Gap of Dong'erfang, like a small lamp, quietly waiting for an echo.