I couldn’t hear them.
The river water rose past my navel.
A low thud came from behind—a brick shattering under a car’s tire.

The vehicle honked twice, snapping me awake.
I scrambled toward the shore.

What was I doing?
Giving up on waiting for Grandma?

Jumping up, I saw a police van!
Several unfamiliar officers escorted someone out—the man who tried to take my home!

Wasn’t he already in jail?

Fury surged.
I climbed up, racing past the junior high kids, wet clothes sticking uncomfortably to my thighs.
Eyes locked on the middle-aged man, I charged into the police crowd and punched his face!

“Give me back my home! Bastard! Filthy dog!”

Officers pulled me back.
The man’s face swelled, his jaw twisting as he assessed the damage, snarling: “What! Can’t fight others, but I can’t handle a kid? Scared now? This is what you get for crossing me!”

“Scum!” I kicked wildly, trying to break free, but the officer held tight, shouting: “Kid! Trust the law—he’ll get what he deserves.”

“Pah!” the man roared. “You’re useless! I got swindled out of millions, and you did nothing. But you chase me for smashing an illegal shack? Crazy! I was helping you tear it down! I’m a good citizen!”

He infuriated me.
At least twenty years older, he cowered before others but had the heart to destroy Grandma’s house, built through her hunger and sacrifice!

I lived there nine years!
Neighbors never drove me out—why him?!

Tears of rage streamed down.
I screamed: “I’ll kill you! I have no home! I’ll go to jail to kill you!”

He shot back: “Try it, brat! When I’m out, you’re first!”

“Shut up!” an officer barked, silencing us both.

Tears burning, I stared at the officer.
He removed his cap, held it before him, stood straight, and saluted it solemnly.

“Raised under the flag, I love my country! But I’m punching you for this kid!”

With that, he clenched his fist and struck the man’s face with full force!

A muffled thud rang out; the man’s head jerked right, eyes dazed.

Everyone froze.

Another officer rushed to stop him, pushing him back: “Hey! You lost it?”

“I’m perfectly clear,” the officer said calmly, shaking his hand. “I’ll report for discipline myself.”

The others fell silent, stunned.

I calmed, letting the officer behind hold me, regretting the man wasn’t sentenced to death.

As they escorted him to identify the scene, his face half-swollen, he sneered: “Heard there’s three dishes and a soup in there?”

The officer who punched him donned his cap, scoffing: “Bully the weak, you’ll get yours inside.”

The man shrugged: “Fine by me, better than eating scraps.”

Later, I learned threatening with a knife meant only five days’ detention.

As he was loaded into the van, the Jinan students watched.
The officer who stood up for me came over.

I waved my hands, reflexively saying: “Thanks, big brother, but I don’t qualify for a welfare home, and I’m waiting for Grandma.”

He paused, thought, then patted his pockets, finding no wallet.
Smiling, he pulled out his phone: “Kid, let’s get you some food.”

I lit up, tears turning to a smile like a blooming flower.

The front passenger window rolled down.
An officer adjusted his glasses, grinning: “Don’t make another mistake. Report for discipline, don’t delay.”

My mood swung wildly.

The glasses-wearing officer unbuckled, stepped out: “I’ll buy it.”

The punching officer straightened his cap, saluted him, gratitude in his gesture.

Glasses returned a shoulder pat.

The driver’s window lowered: “Leaving during a mission? That’s discipline too. You two think this is a game?”

Glasses replied earnestly: “It’s humane handling. You didn’t let him escape, did you?”

“Fine, you’re slick.”

As the van left, I looked up, eyes shimmering, at Glasses with hope.

He sighed, mixed emotions, then called to the Jinan kids: “You lot, come do a good deed.”

The students exchanged glances and shuffled over.

My clothes half-soaked, Glasses asked if I wanted to change.

It was cool autumn, but I said no, eagerly leading him out of the alley.
I grabbed my sack, marked by tire tracks, and bounced into a convenience store.

The owner, seeing me with a cop, acted like a tycoon walked in, standing with a fawning smile: “Look around.”

Glasses scanned the shelves, sweeping up every filling snack.
The owner restocked, as if hoping someone’d buy the whole store.

He spent over 180 yuan on food for me!

At checkout, I knew it was mine, beaming: “Thank you, Officer Brother.”

He grinned: “Small thing. When’s your grandma coming back?”

Smiling: “Soon, I think.”

The Jinan boys played porters, helping carry the food near my home.

Glasses glanced at the ruins, then up at the building, thoughtful: “Neighbors seem tight-knit.”

I blinked: “What’s tight-knit?”

He half-smiled: “Means… people here are good.”

“Yeah! They look out for me.”

He pointed at my ruined home: “Got anywhere to go? Any relatives nearby?”

“I’ll wait for Grandma.”
I was resolute, thanking him endlessly.

After he left by taxi, I gleefully tore open a milk pack, sipping through a straw.
The Jinan boys gave me a complex look and headed out.

I licked milk from my lips, waving: “Thanks for carrying my stuff.”

They froze, glanced at each other, and left silently.

After finishing, I changed out of my dust-covered clothes, sitting in the shade, staring at the ruins.
Grandma’s blood and sweat…

That homeless man had no money to compensate me.

Life went on.
I’d buy bricks and concrete, rebuild, scavenge new furniture, make it beautiful for Grandma’s return.

I rushed to the building supply store where Grandma bought bricks.

Explaining my intent, I poured out my situation with raw honesty, tears flowing as I spoke.

Others could spend to cheer up; I only had crying.

The owner, sympathetic, pulled out an abacus: “2.4 meters long, 2 meters wide, 1.65 meters high, minus the door, no roof… 627 bricks at 40 cents each, 250.80 yuan. Plus three bags of concrete at 35 each, sand at 3.50 per jin…”

His abacus clicked.
I swallowed—so expensive!

I hesitated: “Got secondhand bricks?”

“Yes, 20 cents each.”
He recalculated: “With concrete and extras, 277.50 yuan. But if you build crooked, it’s a hazard. It’ll collapse again. Best hire workers.”

I was stunned.
Grandma’s skill in building straight walls amazed me.

He wasn’t cheating me—I felt he worried I’d mess up and waste money.

I knew my limits; beyond scavenging, I was useless.

“How much for workers?”

He sighed: “150 a day. One worker, two days. Better hire two—577.50 total. I’ll chip in, call it 550.”

So lucrative?
With an ID, I’d work construction!

But 550 was astronomical.
I pushed: “Any more discount?”

“No way.” He shook his head. “Secondhand bricks need a 1,000-brick minimum. This is the lowest.”

Frozen, I realized the enormity.
My legs visibly shook.

Saying goodbye, I leaned on the wall home, eyes vacant, gathering my sack to clean up.

I spent a day collecting 931 intact bricks from the rubble—Grandma’s legacy, their number etched in my mind.

Fearing neighbors’ complaints or sanitation sweeps, I scattered them along the riverbank to see before bathing.

Since then, I prayed freely to the moon.

Thankfully, no rain came.
Neighbors, pitying me, pooled over 100 yuan, which I stored at the rice shop.

I had to raise enough to rebuild before winter.

I hustled, eating the officer’s food until it ran out, then braved leftovers.

When leftovers weren’t enough, I begged passersby.

At 5 a.m., I scoured the night market for bottles.
At dawn, I hit breakfast shops, sipping leftover noodle soup.

Seeing students with buns, I shamelessly begged for scraps to save for lunch.

Deep down, I envied these schoolkids.
I could boldly ask them for food—they wouldn’t starve, with parents and warm dinners waiting.

Teenage woes didn’t touch their meals.

As time passed, cold winds cut deeper, my body stiffened.
In an oversized coat, I scavenged, my cracked hands opening and closing, sometimes bleeding, stinging sharply.

That was nothing.
In true winter, nights were deadly—many beggars froze.
Without a rebuilt home, I’d die before Grandma returned.

This month, I hadn’t eaten a proper meal, walking ten kilometers daily, too exhausted to return home.
I slept in quiet, wind-sheltered spots, living on the streets.

Waking cold, I’d check if I was still tired.
If so, I’d find another spot; if not, I’d sneak into complexes, digging through repulsive bins.

All this effort yielded 261 yuan, plus 147 from neighbors at the rice shop—418 total.

Still 142 short.

Winter loomed next week.
Exhausted, that gap felt huge.
Unless I found three sewing machines, it was impossible.

At night, winter bathing under moonlight, I saw my reflection and decided my last step—sell my hair.

It was long enough…

Barbershops opened at 10.
I shopped around, showing my glossy black hair, but most offered under 150 yuan.

I knew it was worth more, so no deal.

At a barbershop behind Beigao, I shared my story.
The owner, moved, offered 200 yuan!

Ecstatic, I sat waiting.
His daughter, a year older, with fluttering lashes, was beautiful.

She poured me water.
Our hands brushed, my heart raced.

She didn’t mind, but my budding feelings flushed my face, heart tangled.

Hair wasn’t shaved off.
To keep future growth even, the owner lifted sections, pressed a comb down, and snipped haphazardly.

He’d paid, so no gentleness—cutting to the scalp, leaving uneven, rough patches that pricked to touch.

Over an hour, my hair was gone.
In the mirror, my delicate face remained, head bumpy, uneven.

Some scalp showed, but he kindly shaved it smoother, less messy.

I rubbed my bald head, like a monk—maybe I was meant for a monastery.

I didn’t mind much; it wasn’t my first time.
Just unaccustomed, breezes tingling my scalp.

As he processed the hair, his daughter handed me two 100-yuan bills, expression heavy: “Keep it safe, little pity.”

My heart skipped, bowing slightly: “Thank you.”

“Wait.” She fetched more water, smiling: “Drink lots in winter, little pity.”

Smitten, I brushed her fingers “accidentally” again, thanking her.

I never wanted to wash my hands.
With 200 yuan, I ran, still thinking of her, to the rice shop for my money.

The owner barely recognized my bald look, sighing: “Zhixia, I got a new brand. Save room tonight, come try it.”

Thrilled, I said: “Sure! I’ll write a ‘taste review’ after.”

He chuckled: “Take your money.”

Clutching colorful bills, I dashed to the supply store, skinny frame bolstered by my heavy coat, leaving sorrows behind.

Nervous, I feared meeting Chengnan or Jinan kids, but didn’t.

Bald head high, I slapped 550 yuan on the owner’s table.

“Boss, I’ve got the money!”