In the end, the counterfeit bags sold for eight yuan per jin. The old man fiddled with the scale weight again and again before settling it at six jin and three liang, forty eight yuan and forty mao total.
Then he rounded it up to fifty.
Pretty decent of him, honestly.
Shen Qingqing folded the loose bills into a little square and stuffed them into her pocket, dusted off her hands, then turned and headed deeper into the scrap yard.
Inside were piles of broken appliances, ruined sofas, rusted sheet metal, and half sections of drainage pipes. The sun had baked everything all day long, and the smell had fermented into something foul, sour rot mixed with rust and the burnt stench of melting plastic. One breath of it could practically slam a person against the wall.
Huo Yan followed her three steps in before stopping dead.
The smell flooded his nose all at once. His brows twisted tightly together, and a muffled groan escaped his throat, like someone had grabbed him by the neck.
He turned his face aside, lips pressed tightly together as he forced each breath out through clenched teeth.
“Stand there and don’t move. I’m going inside to take a look,” Shen Qingqing shouted over her shoulder.
Huo Yan didn’t answer. He leaned his back against a rusted iron pillar nearby, both hands wrapped in cloth strips and shoved into his pockets, jaw taut.
His nose was too sensitive. Ever since going blind, his sense of smell and hearing had sharpened to an extreme. For other people, this level of stink was unpleasant. For him, it was torture.
His temples throbbed, his stomach churned, and his molars ground together hard enough to creak.
Meanwhile, Shen Qingqing had already disappeared into the mountain of junk.
She bent over and rummaged through the pile of scrap metal, kicked aside a cracked plastic bucket, shoved away several wooden planks, and nearly smacked her head against a washing machine missing its door.
When she reached the deepest row, her eyes lit up.
A tricycle.
A pedal powered one, with an iron cargo bed welded onto the back. The handlebars were crooked, the rear chain hung loose with half of it fallen off the gear, wobbling there uselessly. Most of the paint had peeled away, exposing layers of reddish rust underneath.
Shen Qingqing circled it once, crouched down, and slapped the rear wheel. The tire still had air in it. She squeezed it, hard and solid, no leaks.
She stood up, brushed the rust flakes off her hands, and yelled toward the scrap yard owner.
“Boss! How much for this busted tricycle?”
The old man shuffled over while fanning himself with a palm leaf fan. He glanced at the tricycle and pointed lazily at it.
“That thing? Somebody rode it for five or six years. The chain snapped twice, and the cargo bed’s been welded before. What do you want that junk for?”
“I asked how much, not for its life story.”
“One hundred fifty.”
Shen Qingqing planted her hands on her hips and stomped one flip flop against the ground.
“Fifty.”
The old man stopped fanning himself and squinted at her.
“Little girl, are you robbing me? The scrap metal alone’s worth more than fifty!”
“Look at this thing. The chain’s fallen off, the handlebars are bent, the paint’s gone. You’re paying money just to let it sit here taking up space. If I don’t buy it, you’ll melt it down for thirty or forty at best.”
She slapped the cargo bed with one hand, making the sheet metal hum.
“I’m helping you clear inventory for fifty bucks. You should be thanking me.”
The old man tucked the fan into his waistband and planted one foot onto the cargo bed.
“Take it or leave it. One hundred. Final price.”
“Sixty.”
“One hundred.”
“Seventy. One mao more and I’m walking.”
The old man stared at her for three seconds before his mouth twitched.
“Fine, fine. Eighty. Lowest I’ll go. Keep haggling and I’ll kick you out.”
“Boss, when you bought my bags earlier, you rounded away six mao. What’s that called? Friendship. Since we’ve got a friendship now, let’s not split hairs. Seventy five, nice round number.”
The old man’s face twitched twice at her logic. He spun the fan once in his hand.
“Seventy five it is. Now hurry up and drag it away before my head starts hurting just looking at you.”
Shen Qingqing reached into her pocket.
First came the hundred yuan she’d borrowed from Huo Yan, then the fifty in loose change from selling the bags, plus the original two yuan and fifty mao in coins she already had.
She counted it all, pulled out one hundred yuan, and handed it over.
The old man dug through his metal cash box and handed her back a twenty and a five.
Shen Qingqing clenched the twenty five yuan in her fist, shoved it into her pocket, and crouched beside the tricycle’s rear wheel.
The chain was hanging crooked over the gear, part of it jammed between the flywheel and the rear fork.
She grabbed the chain with one hand, her nails digging into the gaps between the links, while the other hand rotated the gear.
The gear was coated in greasy black oil and grime that smeared slickly across her fingers.
She lifted the chain, looped it over the teeth one section at a time.
Metal clinked sharply, click click. The gear turned halfway, the chain slid back into place for part of the track, then jammed again.
Shen Qingqing cursed under her breath, forced the gear apart with her fingers, yanked the stuck section free, lined it up with the groove again, and snapped it back onto the teeth.
Click! It locked in.
The chain tightened. She spun the rear wheel with one hand, and the chain rattled smoothly along the gear without slipping off again.
Three steps away, Huo Yan tilted his head slightly.
He’d heard everything.
From the moment she crouched down, every sound had slipped cleanly into his ears.
The scrape of the chain being lifted off the gear, the tiny tapping sounds of her fingernails hooking into the chain links, the creak of the wheel bearing as the gear rotated, and finally the crisp snap when the chain slid perfectly back into place.
Not once had she hesitated. No fumbling, no repeated trial and error.
Her movements were clean and practiced.
Something flickered in his brow.
Shen Qingqing stood and wiped the grease from her fingers onto her pant leg before grabbing the crooked handlebars.
The fastening bolt had loosened. She shoved a brick underneath for leverage, gripped the handlebars with both hands, and hauled them back into place with a grunt.
Creak!
The handlebars straightened out. Not perfectly, still off by five or six degrees, but rideable.
“Boss, got a wrench I can borrow?”
The old man tossed an adjustable wrench out from the back room. It clanged against a pile of sheet metal before bouncing once.
Shen Qingqing picked it up and crouched back down to tighten the bolts.
The wrench bit onto the nut. She twisted it three full turns until the bolt locked tight and the handlebars stopped wobbling.
Then she checked the front wheel, kicked the tire a couple of times, firm and full of air.
One welded section on the front fork had split slightly, leaving a curled edge of metal sticking up, but it wouldn’t affect riding.
She tossed the wrench back and clapped the dust off her hands.
Huo Yan leaned against the iron pillar, face angled toward her direction, both hands still in his pockets.
He said nothing. But he was thinking.
Shen Yaning had never even finished middle school. She’d spent three years drifting around the urban village doing nothing except stealing Huo Yan’s money to buy fake luxury goods, throwing cash at livestreamers, and whipping a blind man with a belt.
She couldn’t tell a screwdriver from a wrench.
She couldn’t even cook instant noodles properly.
So when had she learned to fix a tricycle?
The way she’d reset the chain onto the gear had been practiced, smooth and direct, with zero hesitation or wasted movement.
Even the force she used while tightening the bolts was perfect, not too loose and not too tight. She handled the adjustable wrench more naturally than chopsticks.
Inside his pocket, Huo Yan’s thumb rubbed slowly over the edge of the remaining hundred yuan bill.
He remembered that phrase again.
Transmigrated here. She’d shouted those words earlier during her breakdown.
“Transmigrated here just to starve to death.”
Something rolled in his throat.
By then, Shen Qingqing had already climbed onto the tricycle seat. She gripped the handlebars with both hands and bounced hard against the saddle.
The spring squealed sharply, the seat collapsed on one side, and her butt slammed directly onto the metal frame underneath.
“Hiss.”
She sucked in a breath, shifted awkwardly, and finally found a position that didn’t stab into her backside.
She planted her feet onto the pedals and pushed once. The chain moved, the rear wheel turned, and the tricycle rolled forward half a meter.
Rideable.
Shen Qingqing jumped off and jogged back toward Huo Yan.
“The vehicle’s ready.” Huo Yan faced her direction, expression unchanged.
“What vehicle?”
“A tricycle, pedal powered. I just bought it.”
The corners of his mouth pressed downward slightly.
“You know how to repair vehicles.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a statement.
Shen Qingqing froze for half a second, thoughts spinning. The original owner of this body definitely didn’t know how to fix vehicles.
She’d said too much.
“I watched tutorials online. It’s super easy.” She brushed it off quickly, then grabbed his wrist and dragged him toward the tricycle.
Huo Yan paused briefly but didn’t resist.
When they reached the tricycle, Shen Qingqing slapped the cargo bed.
“Get in, git in the back. I’ll pedal us to the market.”
Huo Yan reached out and touched the edge of the cargo bed. His fingertip scraped across the surface.
Rust! A fingernail sized rust flake curled upward sharply enough to cut skin.
The sheet metal was about half a millimeter thick, the welds crude, and there was a dent in the floor of the cargo bed like something heavy had smashed into it.
Back in the capital, the worst car he’d ever ridden in had been an all aluminum Maybach S680 with triple layered massage cushions in the leather seats and double layered soundproof windows.
And now she was telling him to ride in a rusted scrap yard tricycle bought for seventy five yuan.
“Are you getting in or not? Why are you dragging your feet? The market closes at six and there’s only one hour left!” Shen Qingqing snapped impatiently as she shoved him in the back.
The push knocked Huo Yan slightly forward. Both hands braced against the cargo bed edge.
Rust flakes stabbed into the cloth wrappings and pressed into his wounds. His lips tightened briefly.
Then he climbed inside.
His knees banged against the metal floor with a loud thud.
He sat down in the cargo bed with his back against the metal wall, knees bent so tightly they nearly reached his chin.
The compartment was too small. At one meter eighty five, he looked like a giant fish stuffed into a cat food bowl.
Shen Qingqing swung herself onto the seat, planted both feet onto the pedals, and glanced back at him.
Huo Yan sat curled in the cargo bed with his wrapped hands resting on his knees, head tilted slightly toward the sunset.
The evening light painted half his face orange red, stretching the shadows along his cheekbones. His lips stayed pressed together, revealing nothing.
“Hold on tight.”
Shen Qingqing stomped down on the pedals. The chain rattled taut with a loud clatter, and the tricycle lurched crookedly forward.
The wheels crunched over gravel. The metal cargo bed shook violently, rattling noisily as Huo Yan’s back slammed twice against the metal wall. He reached out to grip the edge tightly, fingers tensing.
The wind rushed in.
The evening air of the urban village carried the smell of cooking oil, damp sewer water, and the lingering scent of steamed buns from breakfast stalls packing up for the day.
It brushed across his face, lifting the loose strands of hair from his forehead and exposing the half inch scar above his brow.
Up front, Shen Qingqing pedaled hard, panting heavily. Her flip flops kept slipping against the pedals until she finally kicked them off entirely and pedaled barefoot.
“That repair tutorial of yours,” Huo Yan’s voice drifted up from the cargo bed, broken apart by the wind.
Shen Qingqing’s foot faltered on the pedal.
“What tutorial?”
“The one you said you watched online.”
“Yeah. So?”
Huo Yan didn’t answer.
The wind blew his hair back down, hiding the scar again.
His fingers tapped twice against the metal edge of the cargo bed, but the wind swallowed the sound.
After waiting several seconds with no response, Shen Qingqing twisted around and shouted at him.
“If you’ve got something to say, say it already. Stop bottling it up!”
“When did you ever have enough mobile data to watch tutorials?”
Shen Qingqing’s foot froze mid pedal.
The tricycle swerved violently. The front wheel nearly crashed into a roadside trash can before she yanked the handlebars hard and corrected course, her heart skipping a beat.
She didn’t look back.
Her foot slammed down again, the chain clacked loudly, and the tricycle surged forward once more.
“We’re almost there. Left turn ahead, that’s the market.”
Huo Yan sat quietly in the cargo bed, his wrapped fingers slowly tightening against the rusted metal edge.