Chapter 35: Box

After watching the evening news and weather, Fei Fei dutifully returned to her room to study, leaving the TV to Mom and Dad for their war dramas or soaps.

Chen Qiao used to feel cursed—studying hard went unnoticed, but playing with toys or the Famicom got him caught.
Not sneaky enough.

Before studying, Fei Fei finished a long-delayed cross-stitch.
Last night, Hai Xia had stared at it, struck by the phrase: “People are drifting boats, home is the shore.”
Her “home” was no haven, but a storm’s epicenter, hardening her resolve to leave.

Mom rested Sundays but couldn’t sit still, checking the early rice fields—harvestable around the Great Heat in July.
She dragged Fei Fei along.
Chen Qiao was spared; once, as a kid, Dad left him in a bamboo grove while working the fields, and he caught a fever.
Now, he only helped carry rice during harvest.

He was eager for novel updates and contract news, hitting the black internet café Sunday afternoon.

Middle schoolers had evening study, and boarders, flush with weekly allowances, swarmed the streets, buying snacks or hitting arcades and cafés for Bubble Bobble.
Tian Zhen and Zheng Yan were glued to Naruto, likely binging to the latest episode.

The café was packed, only two machines free.
His usual spot was taken, forcing him to switch.

Two familiar faces with garish styles smoked nearby.
One, Chen Hua, sported cheap red hair, legs crossed, watching One Piece and playing QQ Speed, swaying with his car’s drifts.
The other, Chen Song, had black hair covering his ears, thick slanted bangs over one eye.

Distant cousins sharing a great-grandfather, they were brothers, part of the “wood” generation with names like Chen Qiao’s cousin Chen Huai.
They’d grown up together—roasting sweet potatoes, stealing peaches, playing cards, fighting.
They’d worked out of town with Chen Huai, but while he stayed wandering, they returned broke.

Chen Hua, older, married first, had two daughters, and now worked as a mason, earning hard cash.
Chen Song joined the cement plant, married a colleague, and had a daughter and son.

“Hua Bro, Song Bro,” Chen Qiao greeted, waving.
Too broke to hire them yet, and altering their life paths might mean no daughters—a loss.

He booted up, checked his novel’s page: seven measly favorites, three comments—two from newbie authors swapping plugs, one with a garbled QQ number, dodging site filters.
A headhunter editor, no doubt, praising his work to poach him.

His custom anime-style cover, rare for the era, was still under review.
Most small-time writers used random web images or crude Paint sketches, only big names got custom art.

As web novelists grew, some offered free cover designs on forums; others charged.
Chen Qiao saw potential—low-skill work, lax copyright now, and cheap artists later.
A platform could feed users to his own site or other ventures, or be sold off.

Typing new chapters, his QQ blinked—forgot to go invisible again.

“Stinky brother, caught you!”
“Going offline won’t save you—I know you’re hiding.”

He sent a sheepish emoji.

“Which black café you at?”

“Secret.”

“Stingy.
I’ll find you.
How about I tell the dean I saw our school kids at a café?”

“Don’t!”

Everyone knew kids went, but teachers weren’t free to raid daily.

“I’m not that dumb—won’t do something that pisses everyone off for no gain.
But I’m snitching to your sister, watch out.”

He ignored her recycled threat—his café funds came from Fei Fei anyway.

He overstayed a few minutes, but the owner didn’t rush him unless someone waited.
She jotted machine times in a notebook, like library cards.
Too long, and you’d owe extra.

He left for dinner.

Fei Fei stood at the intersection, arms crossed, chatting with a girl in the middle school’s white-and-navy tracksuit uniform.

A setup?
Blocking his path.

No way he’d detour—he wasn’t scared of a middle school girl.

He needed Xia Zhi Rou as a messenger for the landslide warning, so building rapport wouldn’t hurt.

Up close, Xia Zhi Rou’s long hair was tied back, straight bangs covering half her face—a common style, enviably thick.
Her nose and glossy lips showed; no forehead made her face seem small, likely roundish.
Slightly shorter than Fei Fei, her figure hid in the loose uniform, holding a blue plastic bag.

Together, they were a striking pair, but chatting by the garbage dump?
Couldn’t pick a less smelly spot?

“Fei Fei, that’s your brother?
Short, but cute,” Xia Zhi Rou said, pointing.

“He hunches—looks shorter.
Gotta remind him,” Fei Fei replied, focused on posture.

“I’ve always wanted a sibling,” Xia Zhi Rou sighed.

“Only people without them say that,” Fei Fei shot back.

Her brother was less trouble than most, but his recent obedience felt odd.

“Sis…” Chen Qiao started.

Xia Zhi Rou rushed him, hugging tight.
“Gotcha, stinky brother!”

His face buried in her chest, a sweet scent hit—different from Fei Fei’s.
Her chest felt bigger, softness pressing both cheeks, but without side-by-side comparison, memory wasn’t reliable.

Fei Fei pried them apart.
“Zhi Rou, careful—he’s in sixth grade.”

Not double standards—she’d just recalled his age, thinking it mattered.

“He doesn’t look sixth grade, but the height and voice fit,” Xia Zhi Rou teased, patting his head.

“I’ll grow taller than both of you!” he said, swatting her hand, raising his arm high.

“Eat, jump, exercise then.”

“I will without you telling me.”

“Want a bayberry?”

Before he answered, she popped one in his mouth, ate one herself, and offered Fei Fei the bag.
Fei Fei took one—not for herself, but to feed him, his mouth still full of a pit.

“Whose bayberry’s tastier?” Xia Zhi Rou stirred, grinning.

“Sis’s, obviously,” he answered instantly.

“Aren’t they my bayberries?
What’s the difference?” Fei Fei asked.

“The person.”

“Good boy!” Xia Zhi Rou pinched his cheeks, addictive and fun.

Fei Fei grabbed her hand, smiling, thrilled he picked her but worried his face might bruise, ending her pinching privileges.

Caught between them, he couldn’t move—face near Xia Zhi Rou’s chest, back against Fei Fei’s.

“Zhi Rou, we got our stuff!” middle school girls called, likely her dormmates.

“Coming!
Stinky brother, next time you’ll say mine’s better.
Fei Fei, see you at school—lend me your homework!”

She pinched his nose and waved as she ran off.

“Do it yourself!” he called, touching his nose, her scent lingering.
Not a bad desk mate for Fei Fei.

Fei Fei kept the pose, pushing him home, pinching his shoulders to straighten his posture.

Back-support ads flooded TV shopping channels, but rural folks didn’t buy.
Posture fixes meant standing against walls or tying arms to a pole, like Jesus on the cross.

Fei Fei’s chest wasn’t exactly wall-flat, though.