It was nearly noon.
Lin Yinan was pouring the last batch of red bean batter into the copper molds.
The batter flowed into the round wells a little more slowly than in the morning, because the bottom of the bowl was almost empty.
In his apron pocket, something pressed against his leg.
Not a note.
It was the wire ring.
He’d picked it up last night when he was packing up, not knowing why, just that his hand had reached for it on its own.
He hadn’t looked at it again, hadn’t taken it out to check.
But it was there, the cool metal a constant pressure against the fabric.
He was deciding whether to mix another bowl or close up early and go to the store for flour in the afternoon, when the apprentice’s red scooter screeched to a halt in front of the cart.
The apprentice jumped off, helmet still dangling from his hand, drenched in sweat.
“Brother Lin, I need to buy some cakes.” Lin Yinan looked up at him.
“Didn’t you buy some yesterday?” “Today’s not for me.” The apprentice tucked his helmet under his arm and pulled a crumpled hundred-dollar bill from his pocket.
“Boss forgot to eat lunch today.
She’s only had a cup of tea since morning.
I asked if she wanted food, and she said no.
I said I’d buy her some red bean cakes, and she didn’t say no.” Lin Yinan stood behind the cart, still holding the iron tongs.
“She said no?” “She didn’t say no.” The apprentice emphasized.
Lin Yinan didn’t ask again.
He opened the copper mold lid—there were still two cakes baking inside.
He picked them up with the tongs, put them in a paper bag, and handed them to the apprentice.
The apprentice took the bag and glanced down.
“Only two?” “Not enough?” “Boss, she—” the apprentice hesitated.
“She eats three at a time.
I’ve seen it twice.” Lin Yinan’s hand stopped mid-air.
He didn’t speak.
He looked down at the copper molds—empty.
The burner was still on, the molds still hot, but the batter bowl had already been washed and set upside down on the rack.
He stood there for a beat, then opened the fridge.
Inside was a bowl of batter he’d mixed last night, intended for the afternoon.
He took it out.
“Three minutes.” The apprentice stood in front of the cart, watching him relight the burner, pour the batter, fill the molds.
His movements were as steady as in the morning.
But when he flipped the third one, he paused, then poured one more.
A fourth.
The apprentice counted.
He opened his mouth to ask, then closed it.
He didn’t ask.
Four cakes came out of the molds.
Lin Yinan put them all in the same paper bag.
The bag was a little full; he folded one corner down before handing it over.
The apprentice took it and felt that the bag was heavier than usual.
He looked down.
“Brother Lin, there are four here.” “Mm.” “Boss only told me to buy one.” “The extra,” he said, “is extra.” Lin Yinan was wiping the copper molds clean, not looking up.
The apprentice stood there.
He looked at the paper bag in his hand, then at Lin Yinan.
He put his helmet on and revved the scooter.
“I’ll tell her ‘one of them is extra.'” The red scooter echoed in the alley for a few seconds before disappearing around the corner.
Sister Meiyun walked out with her tea.
She stood beside the cart, watching the scooter disappear, then turned to look at Lin Yinan.
“Four?” “Mm.” “Didn’t you say this morning you were low on batter?” “The afternoon batch.” “You gave away the afternoon batch?” “Mm.” Sister Meiyun took a sip of her tea.
She didn’t press.
But she stood there, not walking back to the breakfast shop.
After a while, she set down her cup.
“What were you planning to do with that batch?” “Don’t know.” “You don’t know?” “I just mixed it.” Sister Meiyun looked at him.
She didn’t say “you mixed it because you planned to use it,” didn’t say “you knew exactly what you were doing.” She just took another sip of tea.
Then she turned and walked back toward the breakfast shop.
After two steps, she stopped.
“The things you don’t know,” she said, “seem to be growing.” She walked through the metal shutter.
It slid down slowly behind her, hiding half the storefront.
The alley grew quiet.
The wind came through the mouth of the alley, lifting a corner of the cart’s canvas tarp and letting it fall again.
Lin Yinan stood behind the cart, looking at the metal shutter, then at the empty steel bowl.
The afternoon batch was gone.
He had nothing left to sell for the rest of the day.
But he didn’t close up.
He stood there, still holding the tongs, not putting them down.
Oil Seal jumped down from the awning.
It walked to the edge of the cart and sat down.
Not centered.
One notch to the left.
It wasn’t looking at him.
It was looking across the alley at the repair shop.
Lin Yinan followed its gaze.
The repair shop’s metal shutter was half open, the fluorescent lights on.
No one was moving inside.
The apprentice’s scooter was parked at the entrance.
The engine had already gone silent.
He knew they were inside now.
He stood there.
The wind blew.
He didn’t know what he was waiting for.
Inside the repair shop.
The apprentice set the paper bag on the workbench.
“Boss, I got the cakes.” Jiang Shoushi looked up from behind the engine hood.
She glanced at the paper bag.
It was bulging.
One corner folded down.
“How many did you buy?” “Brother Lin gave me four.” Jiang Shoushi’s hand stopped inside the engine bay.
“Four?” “He said the extra one is extra.” Jiang Shoushi didn’t speak.
She pulled her hand out of the engine bay, wiped it on her coveralls, and walked over.
She opened the paper bag.
Inside were four red bean cakes, neatly arranged, each one golden and perfectly puffed.
Four.
She stood there, looking down at them for a long time.
“Why did he give you four?” “Actually, he asked me if it was enough, and I said you usually eat three.” Jiang Shoushi turned to look at him.
“You told him I usually eat three?” “I just said I’d seen it twice—” “Then why are there four?” “He said the fourth one is extra.
He didn’t look at me when he said it.
Didn’t explain.
He just wrapped them, folded the corner, and said they were extra.” Jiang Shoushi looked down at the four cakes.
She didn’t speak again.
She picked up the first one, took a bite.
Chewed.
Took another bite.
Chewed.
She finished the first and picked up the second.
Took a bite.
Chewed.
The apprentice stood beside her, watching her eat.
He’d never seen his boss eat standing at the workbench before.
She ate with concentration, like she was inspecting a part’s tolerance.
She finished the second and picked up the third.
Took a bite.
Chewed.
As she swallowed, she paused.
“What are you staring at?” “Nothing.” The apprentice looked away.
“I was just thinking—why didn’t he tell you to come get them yourself?” Jiang Shoushi’s hand stopped mid-air.
“What?” “He told me to buy them.
He said they were extra.
But he didn’t tell you to come get them.” Jiang Shoushi didn’t answer.
She finished the third, then picked up the fourth.
She didn’t bite into it right away.
She turned it over to look at the bottom—the browning was even, the edges not collapsed.
Perfectly baked.
She didn’t put it in the same paper bag as the first three.
She placed it on the corner of the workbench—the corner closest to the tool wall.
Then she reached into her coverall pocket and felt something.
Small, round.
She’d found it at the bottom of the toolbox.
Didn’t know who’d left it.
A washer.
Rusty.
She took it out and placed it beside the cake.
Side by side.
A finger’s width apart.
The apprentice looked at the washer.
“Boss, what’s that?” “A washer.” “Why did you put it next to the cake?” “Don’t know.” She turned and walked back to the engine hood.
Crouched down, went back to work on the car.
But when she reached into the engine bay, her hand was half a beat slower than before.
The apprentice stood beside the workbench, looking down at the four cakes—three eaten, the paper bag empty, the fourth still sitting there.
Beside it, a rusty washer.
He didn’t ask again.
He turned and walked out of the repair shop, got on his scooter, revved the engine, and left.
Afternoon.
The quietest time on the street.
Sunlight slanted into the repair shop, cutting the floor in two.
Jiang Shoushi had already closed the hood.
She stood at the workbench, filling out the work order.
Her handwriting was neat.
Date.
License plate.
Repair items.
Every character sat neatly on the page.
After she finished, she set down the pen and slipped the work order into the folder.
Then she looked down at the cake on the workbench.
Still there.
The washer beside it was still there too.
Side by side.
A finger’s width apart.
She looked at the cake for a long time.
Then she picked it up.
Put it in her left coverall pocket.
No explanation for why the left.
She hadn’t decided yet.
Evening.
The street slowly darkened.
Jiang Shoushi stood at the repair shop entrance.
She watched Lin Yinan packing up.
His movements were as steady as always—steel bowls stacked, copper molds wiped clean, change box closed.
But after he wiped the copper molds, he wiped them again.
She stood there, watching him wipe them a second time.
Then she turned and walked back into the repair shop.
She walked to the workbench.
The cake was still in her left pocket.
She didn’t take it out.
She turned off the light.
Walked to the door.
Pulled down the metal shutter, a very light metallic click as it locked.
She stood outside.
The alley was dark.
She didn’t look toward the cart.
But she stood there for one beat before turning and walking into the night.
Oil Seal sat between the repair shop and the cart.
Not centered.
One notch to the left.
The wind blew, lifting a corner of the cart’s canvas tarp and letting it fall again.
Its ear twitched to the left—toward the repair shop.
Then it stood up.
Walked back to the cart’s awning.
Sat down.
Like a lump of butter just placed on the table, not yet starting to melt.
Tomorrow morning, he would mix a new batch.
She knew.
He knew too.
No one said it.
End of Chapter 9.