Chapter 7

Li Xiaohua shouted, "The soy sauce bottle tipped over," before the sound even faded, Zhao Jianguo already casually pulled a small wood chip from his pants pocket and shoved it into the kitchen door threshold; the bottle wobbled twice, then steadied.

"Oh my, you're still carrying that thing?" Li Xiaohua poked her head over, still holding a rag in her hand, "Where did you get that?"

"Just shaved it." Zhao Jianguo pulled out the wood chip, casually brushed off sawdust on his pants, "It's anti-slip; placed at the doorway it works better than a brick."

Li Xiaohua didn't respond, stared at his hands for two seconds—joints clean, but the nail grooves held specks of gray-black wood shavings, as if he'd just finished work. She opened her mouth, but in the end didn't ask. These past few days, the things her son pulled out of his pocket have become increasingly outrageous—fixing pens, welding hooks, propping up faucets, and now he can even shave wood chips on the spot. That string in her heart had long loosened; she could no longer tighten it.

Zhao Jianguo also didn't explain, turned and went back inside, dragging out that tin box from under the bed. The old tools Li Xiaohua gave him, he had last night already stored them all in his ring—the file sharpened, the saw blade straightened, even that rusty wrench oiled. What he lacked now wasn't skill, but material.

He rummaged through the odds and ends in his ring; two old screws were still there. These were left over from yesterday when he repaired the water pump, originally intending to swap out a few small parts, never expecting they'd come in handy for a big job.

At the first hint of dawn, he pocketed the nails and left, heading straight to the recycling station behind the alley of the Red Star Steel Rolling Factory. There, year-round, lay piles of scrapped machine-tool parts, broken chairs and tables, and split door panels; as long as one was willing to dig, something usable could always be found.

Old Zhang at the recycling station was squatting by the door eating a fried dough stick; seeing him come, he grinned: "Yo, little tech whiz, what are you scavenging for today?"

"Uncle Zhang, any door panels left?" Zhao Jianguo produced the two screws, spreading them in his palm, "Just this little thing—I'll trade it for a usable piece."

Old Zhang narrowed his eyes, then glanced at him: "What do you need that thing for? It's not even enough to nail a shoe sole."

"To make a stool." Zhao Jianguo laughed, "Our little stool wobbles like a seesaw when you sit on it."

Old Zhang chuckled: "You can still make a stool?"

"Let me try." Zhao Jianguo unhurriedly said, "How about you let me pick three pieces? I'll realign your water pump's bearing thoroughly—I guarantee it'll run as smoothly as a new one."

Old Zhang pondered; the water pump really did rattle, and fixing it at the factory cost two mao each time. This kid's skill wasn't just talk—last time he helped someone fix a fan, he even got the rotation speed right.

"Alright, three broken door panels are yours." He waved his hand, "Go ahead and pick them, but don't grab the totally rotten ones; if what you make collapses later, don't blame me for bad material."

Zhao Jianguo didn't stand on ceremony, diving into the pile to rummage. He picked a solid piece of pine door core, then found two old boards with frames, enough to assemble a small stool plus a box. He measured with the saw—thickness uniform, grain straight—barely workable.

Carrying the boards back to the courtyard, the sky had just fully lightened. He didn't go inside, but turned straight to the corner of the yard, laid the boards on the ground, laid out the saw, lined up the file, and got to work right away.

Sha Zhu walked by holding a bowl of soy milk; seeing the scene, he almost set down his bowl: "Jianguo, are you planning to switch careers to carpentry?"

"First I'll make a stool." Zhao Jianguo squatted, taking a pencil to draw lines on the board, "That old thing in the kitchen squeaks when you sit on it; my mom hates the noise."

"You still know how to draw a line?" Sha Zhu leaned in for a look; the line was as straight as if pressed by a ruler, "Wow, that's pretty professional."

"Just random scribbles." Zhao Jianguo's hand didn't stop, "If the saw goes crooked, I'll fix it later."

He had no clamps, so he used two bricks to clamp the board, wound the clothesline a few rounds around it and pulled tight, making a makeshift fixture. The first saw cut made the wood warp a bit; he flicked his wrist, immediately eased off, withdrew, and re-found the angle.

"Take it slow." Sha Zhu squatted beside him, "If that saw snaps, your fingers are done for."

"No problem." Zhao Jianguo smiled, "The saw listens to the hand, the hand listens to the brain, the brain listens…" He paused, "... to experience."

After a bout of busyness, half an hour later, the rough shape of four legs emerged. He took sandpaper and gradually smoothed the edges; sawdust sifted down, and to the touch it was no longer prickly.

"Hey, it actually turns out like that." Sha Zhu gave it a try; it was steady and solid, "If you took this to sell, it'd be worth half a mao each."

"I wouldn't charge even to give it away." Zhao Jianguo flipped the stool over to check its legs, "My dad's tools are scattered here and there; I need to make a box to keep them tidy."

"You still want to make a toolbox for your dad?" Sha Zhu blinked, "Your dad's wrench is older than I am."

"The older, the more precious." Zhao Jianguo lowered his head and kept sanding, "Old items deserve a proper home."

Those words reached Li Xiaohua's ears; she was just coming out with a basin of laundry, hearing it she said nothing, only stood in the doorway watching awhile. Her son squatted there, back straight, hands steady, the wood in his grasp seeming to come alive, bit by bit turning into something usable.

That little doubt in her heart rose again—this kid, his skill is genuinely good, but relying solely on that, how far can he go?

After Zhao Jianguo put the stool in the kitchen and began planing the second board, she finally couldn't hold back: "Jianguo, tinkering with this is fine, but don't neglect your real duties."

"What real duties?" Zhao Jianguo lifted his head.

"Going to school." Li Xiaohua set the basin down on the floor, "You've been out for two years; if you don't go back now, later you won't even be able to get into junior high."

Zhao Jianguo's hand paused, then he smiled: "Mom, I was just about to tell you this."

"Hmm?"

"I want to go back to school." He set the plane down, brushed off the dust on his hands, "Fixing things relies on hand familiarity, but to truly understand, you still need to read. Principles, mechanics, materials—none of that isn't scholarship."

Li Xiaohua froze: "You really want to go back?"

"Yes." Zhao Jianguo nodded, "I not only want to return, I also want to place in the top three."

"You……" Li Xiaohua didn't know what to say for a moment, "Having this intention is good, but the workers' children's school doesn't admit outsiders."

"I'll go ask my dad." Zhao Jianguo stood up, "He has connections at the factory; as long as someone is willing to help, there's always a chance."

Li Xiaohua didn't stop him. She could tell this boy wasn't acting on a whim; making stools, making boxes—this wasn't play, it was laying a path.

Zhao Erniu came home from work; Zhao Jianguo spread the toolbox design on the table—with compartments, detachable, and on the front he left a small wooden plaque engraved with the five characters "Zhao Family Toolbox."

"Dad, this is what I made for you." He placed the wrench, file, and saw blade inside one by one, "From now on, when fixing things, it'll be easy to find them."

Zhao Erniu stared at the box, his fingers rubbing over the words "Zhao Family Toolbox" for a long time, saying nothing.

"Dad, I want to go to school." Zhao Jianguo seized the moment, "I want to make up the lessons I've missed; later I can enter a technical college, join the factory, and also become a skilled worker."

Zhao Erniu finally lifted his head: "Do you know what the technical college entrance exam covers?"

"Mathematics, Physics, Chinese Language." Zhao Jianguo answered succinctly, "These past two years I haven't been idle; I've kept reading."

Zhao Erniu stared at him for a while, then suddenly laughed: "Alright, I'll go see the director tomorrow. If the school grants you a trial enrollment, you just need to place in the top three."

"It's a deal." Zhao Jianguo extended his hand.

Zhao Erniu shook his hand, the grip firm.

The next morning, Zhao Jianguo again squatted in the courtyard corner, starting to make the toolbox. This time he chose materials more carefully, beveling the edges, securing the joints with wooden pegs, and finally sanding repeatedly with sandpaper until it felt as smooth as silk.

Sha Zhu, as usual, came to watch: "Your box is even squarer than my master's toolbox."

"If your master comes, I'll give him one." Zhao Jianguo didn't even look up.

"Hey, kid, you've got a big mouth." Sha Zhu slapped his thigh, "Once you get into technical college, I'll treat you to stewed meat!"

"Don't make promises yet." Zhao Jianguo smiled, "When I actually pass, you can treat me then—no rush."

Just then, Zhao Erniu came out of the house, holding a slip of paper: "The school replied—go to the affiliated middle school for a one-month trial; if you place in the top three on the monthly exam, they'll officially enroll you."

Zhao Jianguo took the slip, glanced at it, folded it, and tucked it into his pants pocket.

"Okay." He nodded, "Then starting tomorrow, I'll rise at five a. m. to study, and not sleep before ten p. m."

"With this drive, I can rest easy." Zhao Erniu patted his shoulder, "Just don't talk without putting in the work."

"Dad, look at this." Zhao Jianguo finished sanding the last edge of the toolbox, gently closed the lid, and handed it over.

Zhao Erniu took it, opened it, closed it, then opened it again. Every tool inside fit snugly, even the saw blade's angle was designed to be slanted for easy access.

He said nothing, just held the box to his chest and walked into the house.

Zhao Jianguo stood where he was, watching his father's back, and suddenly felt that all the frustration, grievance, and endurance of the past two years were worth it.

He lowered his head to look at the sandpaper in his hand; only a small piece remained. He didn't throw it away, folded it, and slipped it into his pocket.

Daylight filled the sky, and people in the courtyard headed out for work one after another. He had tidied up his tools and was about to go back inside when his ring suddenly grew hot, like a sun‑heated metal sheet pressed against his skin.

He touched his wrist without showing any emotion, and he knew clearly—this thing was urging him again.

He had just taken a step when Li Xiaohua poked her head out of the kitchen: "Jianguo, did you sweep up the sawdust?"

"Swept." He turned his head, adding, "I also leveled that loose brick beside the well while I was at it."

"You..." Li Xiaohua shook her head. "You're busy with this all day long, and you don't even feel tired."

"Not tired." Zhao Jianguo smiled. "When I work, my mind is clearest."

He walked into the house and took out an old physics book from his ring—something he'd picked up at the scrap yard the day before; the cover was gone, the page edges were curled, but the text was still legible.

He opened to the first page and wrote in the blank space with a pencil: "First day of trial reading, goal: top three."

The pencil tip paused, then he added: "The stool and the box are just the beginning."

He closed the book, placed it on the bedside table, and looked out the window.

Sunlight shone on the pile of lumber in the corner of the courtyard, and the wood shavings glowed golden.