Stirred up by the jeep’s tires, a layer of yellow dust settled and faded at the far end of the dependents’ compound.
Turning back, Qiaoqiao took in the sprawling yard, the numerous rooms, and the profound, suffocating silence.
Living all alone in a house this big, would Zhou Wenhui feel lonely?
What did he usually do? Read? Just stare blankly into space?
Abandoning her efforts in the garden, Qiaoqiao walked hesitantly toward the study.
The door was open. Zhou Wenhui sat quietly by the desk, a book lying open before him, though it was impossible to tell whether he had actually taken any of it in.
“Do you… need to use the commode?” Qiaoqiao asked from the doorway.
“They’re gone?”
“Mm, Mom and Dad left. Do you want me to push you out to the yard to sit for a bit?”
“No need.”
“Oh. What would you like for dinner tonight? We still have pork belly and cabbage left.”
“Whatever!”
Zhou Wenhui remained as icy as ever. Testing the waters, Qiaoqiao suggested, “How about noodles, then? Cooking them with the pork belly and cabbage is really delicious.”
“Mhm.”
With no further conversational threads to pull, Qiaoqiao bravely stepped into the study. Noticing the enamel mug was completely empty, she stammered, “I’ll get you some fresh water.”
Receiving no reply, she grabbed the mug and hurried away.
The two of them shared this home as husband and wife—a couple who had met a mere three days ago, yet were so profoundly estranged they didn’t even know what to say to each other.
Filling the mug to the brim, she brought it back to Zhou Wenhui before turning her attention to the coal stove to prep the evening meal.
The coal fire caught slowly. As Qiaoqiao sat waiting by the side, a sudden, piercing wave of displacement washed over her—the world around her felt agonizingly unfamiliar.
I wonder how Ge is doing. Is he adapting to life at the factory? Does he feel this crushing loneliness, too?
Mom and Dad must be finishing up in the fields by now, and Grandma is probably getting supper ready, right?
The water began to boil, bubbling rhythmically, prompting Qiaoqiao to quickly get up and drop the noodles into the pot.
Each of them got a bowl, but while Zhou Wenhui’s was topped with fried, fragrant pork belly and a poached egg, Qiaoqiao’s contained only plain cabbage.
Her parents-in-law had been endlessly generous, urging her repeatedly to eat her fill and never scrimp, even leaving behind one hundred yuan in cash alongside enough ration tickets.
Though Zhou Wenhui wasn’t working and was currently on sick leave, his monthly salary was sixty-eight yuan, delivered right to the door by the logistics department on the tenth of every month.
Having known the bone-deep terror of poverty, Qiaoqiao simply couldn’t bring herself to live lavishly. Back in Big Willow Village, a bowl of noodles was a rare luxury enjoyed maybe twice a year.
Still, she ate until she was full and content, though a faint prick of guilt lingered—back home, her grandparents and parents would only have watery vegetable congee mixed with salted greens tonight.
By the time she finished cleaning up the dishes, night had fallen. The military district was illuminated by electric lights, which were centrally shut off at ten o’clock sharp.
Big Willow Village had no electricity; after dark, they relied entirely on dim kerosene lamps.
Grandma and Mom would sit under that flickering light, repairing shoe soles, mending clothes, and embroidering pillowcases.
Years of endless needlework had ruined their vision, leaving their eyes chronically watery and prone to sudden, unexplainable tears.
Yet, Qiaoqiao had always loved sitting on the heated brick bed, following their lead as she learned how to stitch a shoe sole.
“Qiao, you’re still young, you don’t need to do this. Don’t ruin your eyes like your grandma did,” Grandma would always say, trying to keep her away from the needlework.
“Qiao, go boil a pot of water and toss in some clear-ming tea leaves; drinking it is good for your eyes.”
“Qiaoqiao, come quick! Zhao Jintao gave us some tiny dried fish—help your brother clean them up, add some salt to cure them, and we’ll have a wonderful dish for tomorrow.”
Big Willow Village was unimaginably poor, with meat appearing on the table practically only during New Year’s and festivals. A single bowl of tiny fried fish tasted like the greatest delicacy on earth.
And yet, Big Willow Village was so wonderfully happy. Grandpa and Grandma calling out, Mom and Dad smiling, her brother doting on her—it was a life free of all worries.
Now, sitting on the grand bridal bed surrounded by luxury items she could never have imagined, she felt utterly adrift.
Glancing at the wall clock, she saw it was nine o’clock. Qiaoqiao desperately wanted to sleep.
Yet she didn’t dare. Her mother-in-law had given explicit instructions: at ten o’clock, she had to help Zhou Wenhui get to bed, assist him with the commode, lift him onto the mattress, and place the chamber pot right beside it before she could finally turn in.
She remained deeply afraid of this husband of hers bound to her by law. He never spoke, wore an expression carved of ice, and answered any question with a clipped “Mhm,” “Good,” or “Fine.”
She wished he would just talk more—even if it meant yelling at her—anything to lift this heavy, oppressive quiet.
Struggling to keep her eyes open, the clock finally ticked to nine-forty. Hastily scrambling to her feet, Qiaoqiao headed toward the study.
“I’m coming in.”
There were no lights on inside. She knocked gently, receiving no sound in response.
Pushing the door open, she found that Zhou Wenhui had already managed to get into bed by himself.
“Do you… need to use the commode?” A bitter, heavy sense of humiliation washed over her—he could manage getting into bed entirely on his own after all.
“Just put the urine jar on the stool.”
It was the longest sentence Zhou Wenhui had spoken to her in three whole days.
Groping in the dim light, Qiaoqiao set the urinal onto the small chair, then positioned the chair right beside the edge of the bed.
“Then… I’m going off to sleep.”
Silence greeted her. Turning away, she pulled the study door shut behind her and let out a long, trembling sigh of relief.
At last, she could go to bed.
The next morning, jolted awake by the blaring wake-up bugle, Qiaoqiao bounded out of bed instantly.
Opening the air vent on the coal stove, she dropped two eggs into the kettle to boil, brushed her teeth, washed her face, and grabbed the thermal bucket and mess tin to head to the mess hall for breakfast.
One portion of rice porridge and three fried dough sticks were for Zhou Wenhui, while she bought a single steamed bun for herself.
The line for breakfast was long, filled not only with soldiers in uniform but also women dressed in coarse homespun clothes—wives, like her, belonging to the dependents’ community.
Daring not to waste a single second, Qiaoqiao collected the food and rushed back home at a run.
Zhou Wenhui was already awake, lying quietly in bed.
First, Qiaoqiao carried out the urinal, then slid the wooden bucket under the commode chair.
“I… I’ll help you up…” she murmured in a tiny voice, her face flushing crimson.
Zhou Wenhui offered no reaction whatsoever.
Pulling back the blankets, she saw he was wearing a simple undershirt and loose shorts.
Supporting his shoulders with one hand and his hips with the other, she strained with all her might. 还好，还好 (Good thing)—being used to farm labor, Qiaoqiao actually possessed enough strength to lift him.
Carefully maneuvering Zhou Wenhui onto the commode chair, she reached out to help pull down his trousers, only for him to snap coldly, “I can do it myself. Hand me the toilet paper.”
Her face burning bright red once more, Qiaoqiao handed over the paper and whispered, “I’ll wait outside the door.”
Fleeing the room in a hurry, she pulled the study door shut behind her.
Drawing a deep breath, she forced herself to calm down.
A short moment later, Zhou Wenhui’s voice drifted from inside: “Done.”
Pushing the door open, a sudden wave of stench hit her square in the face. Overcome by a visceral wave of nausea, Qiaoqiao nearly threw up right then and there.
Hold it in, hold it in. Grabbing the wheelchair, she hurried over to lift him off the commode chair.
Perhaps because she rushed, or perhaps because her nerves were stretched too thin, just as Zhou Wenhui’s weight left the seat and she pivoted toward the wheelchair, her foot caught on the leg of the chair, and the two of them crashed heavily to the floor.
The commode chair and bucket overturned, spilling foul waste across the floorboards and soaking straight through Zhou Wenhui’s clothes and trousers.
The room reeked abominably. Ignoring the filth entirely, Qiaoqiao scrambled up from the floor, babbling apologies: “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!”
Zhou Wenhui forced his eyes open—a streak of feces was smeared right across his brow.
“You stupid, clumsy woman! What the hell do you think you’re doing?!”
At that moment, Zhou Wenhui roared like a trapped, furious lion.
“I—I’ll carry you to the bathroom to wash up!”
Desperate to lift him, whether paralyzed by panic or lack of leverage, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t get him up. Lying flat in the pool of waste, Zhou Wenhui screamed hoarsely, “Get out! Get out of my sight—!”
“I—I’ll carry you on my back! Just lean on me.”
Soaked in the foul mess herself, Qiaoqiao squatted down, grabbed his arms, and pulled with all her strength. Pull—I cannot drop him again.
Dragging him onto her back, she stumbled out of the study, through the corridor, across the living room, and straight into the bathroom.
Gently lowering him to the tile floor, she gasped out, “I’m going to get water! I’m sorry, I’ll be right back.”
Racing to the kitchen, she grabbed a bucket, drew a full load of cold water, and dumped it straight over her own head.
The waste was washed from her skin, though her clothes were completely drenched through.
Fortunately, it was already spring, so the water wasn’t freezing.
Drawing another half-bucket of cold water and mixing it with hot water, she rushed back into the bathroom.
From his hair down to his amputated legs, Zhou Wenhui was covered head-to-toe in filth.
“What the fuck are you even good for, you idiot? Call Liu Songming here!”
Zhou Wenhui roared in utter despair.
With Liu Songming away at the military base, shouting wasn’t going to help. Without missing a beat, Qiaoqiao emptied a full bucket of water right over him.
Still seeing residue, she dumped a second bucket.
Once he was finally rinsed clean, she reached behind him to strip away his ruined shirt, wrapping him swiftly in a bedsheet. “Take off your underwear yourself.”
Struggling futilely against her, Zhou Wenhui had no choice left—he ripped off his underpants and allowed himself to be bundled up like a zongzi before being dumped unceremoniously onto the marital bed.
“I’m sorry. I’ll be more careful from now on. Just rest for a moment while I clean up the study.”
Without a word of response, Zhou Wenhui stared blankly up at the ceiling as silent tears welled and spilled down his cheeks.
Soaked to the bone, Qiaoqiao hauled a bucket of water into the study, dropped to her knees on the floor, and began scrubbing away the mess inch by inch.
Once, twice, three times—until suddenly, she dropped her cleaning rag, collapsed forward onto the floor, and broke down in wracking sobs.