This tactic didn’t work on the students who extorted me—they weren’t scared.
Maybe the younger they are, the bolder.
I hoped one day they’d meet someone who’d really chop them down.

Gasping heavily, drenched in cold sweat, I kept staring down the alley even after the sweat dried.
The kitchen knife stayed close by.

Half an hour later, I decided to patrol with the knife.
Not wanting to alarm neighbors, I tucked it behind my back, scanned the area, and confirmed the man was gone before relaxing.

Deep into the night, I went to the river to bathe.
The current was wild—sometimes fast, sometimes slow, especially during storms when the tide surged.
But it was no danger to me; I was a strong swimmer, used to it since childhood.

I washed my clothes too.
On the shore, two rusty nails Grandma had hammered into the wall held a red nylon rope for drying.

That night, I secured the tin door with a wooden plank from inside, knife nearby.
I tossed and turned, only dozing off in the latter half, waking past eight, missing the night market scavenging spot.

I was furious—it was his fault!

Luckily, I had money.
Without it, I’d have to tighten a nylon rope around my waist to bear the hunger.

Good luck was rare.
No sewing machine was dumped today, just some bottles and cans, sold for 4 yuan.
Fearing I’d run out, I skipped fried noodles.

At dusk, I went to the vegetable market, spending 50 cents on a pile of damaged greens—squashed in transport or worm-eaten, deemed ugly.
People cared about appearances and wouldn’t buy them, but to me, food was food.

I climbed down to the river, trudging through mud to retrieve my small gas canister and single-burner stove, hidden under a tarpaulin by a utility pole.

Hoisting them up, I set them on the bank.
The stove, Grandma’s legacy, never failed.

Don’t underestimate these items.
My home was occasionally visited by scavengers or students, though none were as brazen as yesterday’s man.
An empty gas canister could sell for a good price!

Reconnecting them was a hassle, but I didn’t mind.

I lit the stove, poured a bit of cheap oil—careful not to waste—and started frying the greens with a pinch of salt.
The alley filled with savory aroma.

Tearing open a steamed bun, I stuffed it with greens—my invention.
The flour’s softness mixed with the greens’ crisp, bitter juice, bursting with surprises.

I saved some greens for tomorrow.

Fifty yuan would run out eventually.
I brainstormed ways to get rich quick, grabbing my sack to hunt for gold chains in dumpsters, roaming streets and alleys, but found nothing.

Sigh.

Returning, I found my door open again!

Thinking someone forgot to close it after a visit, I approached.
That middle-aged man from yesterday was inside, eating my leftover bun!

Rage surged, but my knife was inside!
He spotted me, grabbed my gleaming knife, and pointed: “Your dad’s no use. Get lost!”

He gestured outside like he owned the place.

My heart bled, but I shouted helplessly: “No! This is my home!”

His bloodshot eyes glared, and he charged with the knife!

I froze, only able to crouch and cover my head.

He raised the knife high but didn’t strike, swallowing the bun with loud gulps, sneering: “Go get your dad. I’ll chop him too. Try me!”

He licked his lips, crazed.
My legs weakened.
He roared: “F* off!”

I flinched, snapped awake, trying to stand.
My knees buckled, slamming into the ground, pain bringing tears.
I crawled a few steps, clutching the sack, and stood.

“Leave the sack, or I’ll kill you!” he threatened, fiercer than me.
I dropped it and ran out of the alley.

He spat behind me, chasing a few steps: “Keep acting tough, and I’ll mince you into bun filling!”

Tearfully, I glanced back—that was mine and Grandma’s home.
Why him?!

Sniffling, I wouldn’t give up.
Ignoring my knee’s sharp pain, I sprinted to the rice shop.

The owner saw my distress, pushing aside his calculator: “What’s wrong, Zhixia?”

Sobbing, I said: “Uncle, help me! Call the police! Someone took my home and threatened to kill me with a knife…”

The rice shop owner, a kind man, was shocked, scrambling for his phone, finding it in a drawer and dialing 110.

His wife comforted me, offering her son’s AD calcium milk.
I drank through tears, hiccuping.
She didn’t mind my filth, patting my back: “Don’t be scared. The police will fix this.”

I trusted her, wiping tears.
She gave me a 200-sheet tissue pack.
I blew out a wad of snot, calming down.

After seven or eight minutes, police and armed officers arrived, asking where the man was.

Like grabbing a lifeline, I clung to the tallest, strongest armed officer, leading him to the alley.

Neighbors gathered, watching.
The rice shop owner stayed back, avoiding trouble.

Pointing inside, I showed eight officers my home.
The man heard the footsteps, stepped out, and shrank at the sight.

Seeing me, his face darkened, but he played innocent: “Officers, this is an illegal structure, no property deed. No need for all this, right?”

The officer I held ignored him, bending down: “He chased you with a knife?”

I gritted my teeth: “He ate my bun! Said he’d mince me into filling!”

Realizing the gravity, he waved his hands, fawning: “Kid, I was joking. I’ll leave, won’t come back.”

The armed officer, upright, shielded me: “A grown man with working limbs steals a child’s bun instead of working?”

The man froze, speechless.

“Squat, hands on head,” an officer ordered.
Several moved to detain him.
Panicked, he pointed at me: “He swung a knife at me! Why not arrest him?”

“Slandering a girl? Wow,” a young auxiliary officer shook his head.

No one believed the man.
The alley had no cameras—if it did, Grandma’s case wouldn’t be unsolved.

He didn’t resist, squatting cooperatively, but glared at me as they took him away.

The auxiliary officer asked the chubby senior officer: “Boss, attempted murder?”

“Chasing with a knife counts.”

A female officer approached: “Little girl, what’s your name?”

“I’m Zhixia, a boy.”

She blinked, surprised: “You’re so delicate, I couldn’t tell. Where are your parents?”

“I only have a grandma. She was… shot by a man.”
I pointed helplessly at the ground outside our door.

Where Grandma fell, I never stepped—doing so felt disrespectful.
I denied reality but had to face it.
Hope and despair battled in my mind.

Whenever I felt I couldn’t go on, I’d imagine Grandma staged it to test my independence.
But I’d waited so long, so very long…

The chubby officer, whom I recognized from my report two years ago, turned, touching the female officer’s arm: “Counseling first, then take her statement.”

“Uncle, what about Grandma…” I pleaded: “Have you found the killer? Where is she? Is she okay?”

He frowned at the contradiction, eyes analyzing, then shook his head solemnly: “I’m sorry, we’re still working on it. Do you need therapy?”

Tears welled up: “I just want Grandma!”

Nothing else mattered.

“Don’t cry. I’ll get you food,” the female officer said, pulling my wrist forward.

Hearing food, I glanced at the chubby officer.
He couldn’t give the answers I wanted.
Food first, then.

After I left, the auxiliary officer asked: “Boss, this kid’s got a story. What’s up with her grandma?”

The chubby officer patted his shoulder: “If you want to do this job well, take that question to your grave.”

The auxiliary officer perked up, excited: “That dark? Now I really want to know.”

The chubby officer shot him a look: “I don’t know. Don’t use your family’s connections to overstep.”

…

The female officer bought me a Vitasoy milk and sat to my left.

I checked my knee—no blood, just pain.

Neighbors watched.
Hunched on a bench, I closed my eyes, seeing Grandma’s face, every moment of growing up with her flashing by.

Instinctively, I hooked the officer’s arm, resting my head on her shoulder, sipping the milk, savoring brief, peaceful happiness.

She didn’t pull away, patting my head gently.