The next day, before dawn had fully broken, the city lay wrapped in a gray, misty haze. Su Wanning opened her eyes, feeling no trace of sleep. Her biological clock, shaped by modern life, had trained her to rise early.
She silently slid off the wooden bed, barefoot on the cold floor. The chill crept up from her soles, but it didn’t make her shiver. She retrieved the black hairpin hidden in her hair and, in just two minutes, quietly unlocked the storage room door, the hinges making not a single sound.
The main hall was pitch black. From the master bedroom came the sound of Wang Zhenhai’s snores, rising and falling like a dull saw cutting through wood, vibrating the air.
Barefoot, Su Wanning moved like a wisp of smoke along the wall, steps so light they didn’t stir a speck of dust. Reaching the front door, she studied the old latch for two seconds, then gently pulled it outward, millimeter by millimeter. The friction between the wood and the frame was so faint it sounded like a mosquito’s buzz—almost inaudible.
A cool morning breeze slithered in through the crack, brushing her face with dew-laden air. She slipped out, leaving the door slightly ajar, as if it had never been opened. The entire movement was fluid, unnoticed by anyone inside.
The alley was empty in the early morning. Dew still clung to the bluestone pavement, making it slightly slippery underfoot. A few lazy dog barks echoed from afar and then faded. Su Wanning moved quickly along the wall, her steps light but brisk. The roads for several miles around were etched into the original owner’s memory; she could traverse them blindfolded.
The air carried the faint, sharp scent of burning coal—a distinctive smell of urban mornings in this era. Passing a breakfast stall, she caught the aroma of steaming buns escaping from the bamboo steamers. Her stomach growled, but she didn’t pause—this wasn’t the time to eat. There would be time enough once her mission was accomplished.
After walking for over twenty minutes, a three-story building appeared. Its gray walls and peeling window frames gave it an aged but stern appearance. The Youth Work Office was on the first floor; Su Wanning had seen it from afar when she accompanied Su Yuling to the street office before.
It was still early; the office doors remained closed, glass panes coated in dust. Su Wanning didn’t linger at the entrance. She slipped into a narrow alley across the street. The walls on either side blocked the sunlight, making it an ideal hiding spot.
Around 7:30, activity finally stirred in the building. Someone wheeled a bicycle into the courtyard; its bell rang twice, breaking the morning silence. One by one, men and women in Zhongshan suits or blue work clothes arrived, faces still heavy with sleep, some rubbing their eyes, some yawning.
At eight o’clock, the Youth Work Office door creaked open. Inside were two young clerks, barely in their twenties. One leaned over a desk writing; the other sorted papers, muttering quietly to a colleague: “Life’s impossible! Just thirty-some yuan a month. My wife’s sick again; buying medicine eats up half of it.”
“Everyone’s like that, just tough it out. We’ve got iron rice bowls, consider ourselves lucky.” The other sighed and bent over his work, saying nothing further.
That was him. Su Wanning’s gaze fixed on the complaining clerk. His face was etched with worry; his fingers gripped the corners of the papers, nearly crumpling them. He clearly needed money urgently.
Su Wanning smoothed the folds of her faded, washed-out jacket, took a deep breath, and stepped forward.
Her presence drew little attention—at this time, countless youths came to the office to inquire about rural placement policies or handle procedures. No one paid her much mind. Su Wanning walked straight to the worried clerk’s desk and said softly, “Comrade, hello.”
The clerk looked up. A pale, delicate-looking young girl met his eyes, and a pleased expression spread across his face. “Comrade, here to register for rural placement?”
Su Wanning gently placed her household registration book on the desk, the bright red plastic cover stark against the worn wood. At the same time, with her other hand, she swiftly slipped a folded stack of large-denomination bills under the hukou, sliding it forward without the nearby clerk noticing.
“Comrade, my situation is urgent. My family wants me to go today. Could you help arrange for a placement at a farm in the Northeast?” Her voice was small, but her eyes met the clerk’s directly, unwavering.
The young clerk frowned, about to scold her for ignorance of protocol, but when his gaze fell on the red edge peeking from under the hukou, his words caught in his throat. That unmistakable color of currency—the ten-yuan note—flashed in his mind. Almost a third of his monthly salary, enough to buy medicine for his wife, small books for his child, even a couple pounds of flour to improve meals—these thoughts raced through his head.
His fingers tapped the desk unconsciously, eyes darting to the door and to a colleague, hesitating. The other clerk bent over his work, pen scratching paper, oblivious to the interaction.
Su Wanning didn’t rush him or utter another word. She simply stood there, her gaze clear and sincere. There was no pleading, no calculation—only calm assurance, silently saying: Comrade, help me, and help yourself; we both benefit.
The clerk hesitated for half a minute, then bit his lip. The family needed money; if he missed this opportunity, there wouldn’t be another. He glanced toward the door and his colleague, confirming no one was paying attention. Then he grabbed the hukou from the desk, thumb and forefinger pinching the edge, lifting it just enough to sweep the hidden cash into a half-open drawer, fast enough to leave only a blur, without even fully opening the drawer.
“Which farm do you want?” He lowered his head, voice low and hoarse, slightly nervous, pausing the pen as he waited for her answer.
“Red Flag Farm.” Su Wanning’s voice remained calm, showing no sign of excitement despite the progress.
The clerk asked no further questions. He pulled a rural placement application form from the drawer and picked up a pen, filling it out quickly. Su Wanning watched his hand tremble slightly as he wrote, occasionally scraping the paper with the tip and erasing quickly to correct it. At the key points, he looked up at her to confirm her name and age, then returned to writing.
Once complete, he took a red official stamp from the corner of the desk, pressed it evenly in the ink pad, and stamped the form with a solid “thwack.” The red ink impressed clearly on the paper, exuding authority.
“All done. Here’s the introduction letter, the train ticket—two days exactly—and 100 yuan in placement allowance.” The clerk slid the stamped documents and hukou across to her without meeting her eyes again, fingers still nervously tapping the drawer edge.
“Thank you, Comrade.” Su Wanning didn’t linger, turning and lightly walking out of the office, steps still quick and light.
From start to finish, it took no more than five minutes.
By the time she stepped out of the Youth Work Office, the sun had risen high, warming her as it shone down. Su Wanning walked along the roadside. The smell of sulfur from the coal fires had faded, replaced by the fresh scent of locust trees. The wind rustled the leaves, and even the chattering sparrows seemed cheerful.
Su Yuling, did you really think that holding onto my hukou could bind me here, treating me as a commodity to exchange for money? I am not the original owner—you cannot control me like that.
When Su Wanning reached the alley entrance, the sky was fully bright. She didn’t go home immediately, instead hiding at the corner, waiting. Soon, she saw Su Yuling emerge from the house, cursing loudly, venting at someone: “That damn girl, still pretending to be dead in her room. Today I’ll make sure she skips two meals!”
Once Su Yuling had walked away, Su Wanning slipped back home quietly, entering through the slightly ajar main door. She closed it behind her, relocked the storage room, tucked the hairpin back into her hair, and lay on the wooden bed again, eyes closed, pretending to still be asleep.