When the rooster crowed for the third time, Lin Wan woke up.
Not naturally—she woke from the cold.
Though the kang still held a trace of warmth, the icy air seeping through the cracks in the window had already lowered the room’s temperature. Curled beneath the blanket, she listened to the sounds outside gradually coming alive—the creak of doors opening, water being splashed, distant dogs barking. The production team’s work bell hadn’t rung yet, but people were already moving about and talking.
Zhou Xiaomei and Sun Xiuying were still asleep. Lin Wan quietly got up, put on the work clothes with the fewest patches, then pulled on her padded cotton jacket. In the northeastern March dawn, every breath turned to frost.
She walked into the yard and scooped half a ladle of water from the vat. A thin layer of ice had formed on the surface, cracking sharply when she broke it apart. The cold water splashed onto her face, instantly waking her completely.
Breakfast at the communal canteen was cornmeal gruel and salted pickled vegetables. The gruel was watery, the pickles overwhelmingly salty. The educated youths ate in silence; no one spoke. Lin Wan drank two bowls of gruel and slowly chewed the last bite of pickle—salt replenished strength, and she knew today wouldn’t be easy.
“After breakfast, go collect your grain.”
Lu Xiangjun appeared at the canteen entrance, notebook in hand.
“Thirty jin of raw grain per person each month. It’s the lean season before spring harvest right now. If it’s not enough, we’ll discuss it later.”
The grain was distributed from the warehouse. Bags of corn and sorghum were piled in the corners, and the air carried the mixed smell of stale grain and dust. The storekeeper was an old man in his fifties with a pipe hanging from his mouth, barely raising his eyelids as he weighed the grain.
Lin Wan took fifteen jin of corn, five jin of sorghum, and ten jin of mixed grain. The sack was made from an old flour bag. When she hoisted it onto her shoulder, the weight dragged heavily against her.
“We still need to buy some things,” Zhou Xiaomei whispered on the way back. “I’m out of soap, and my toothpaste’s almost gone.”
“The supply and marketing cooperative isn’t far from Xiangyang Brigade,” Sun Xiuying said. “We can go after work.”
Lin Wan said nothing. She mentally calculated the little money she had—one hundred yuan from home, three already spent on the journey, leaving ninety-seven. Her ration coupons weren’t needed yet. She had three chi of cloth coupons. She would have to spend carefully.
At seven-thirty in the morning, the work bell rang.
Dong—dong—dong—
The heavy, lingering sound echoed through the village. The educated youths followed the commune members to the threshing ground north of the village to assemble. A dense crowd of men, women, old people, and children filled the area, most wearing dark padded jackets and trousers with shiny, worn cuffs. The women wore headscarves, the men caps, and everyone carried farm tools—hoes, shovels, pickaxes.
Lu Guangcai stood atop a stone mill, his voice booming:
“Today the men are digging drainage ditches by the river! The women are going to West Slope to dig out corn stubble! The educated youths will follow Captain Wang!”
Captain Wang was a lean middle-aged man with dark skin and few words.
“Female educated youths, with me.”
West Slope was over two li from the village. Only after arriving did Lin Wan understand what “digging stubble” meant—after last year’s corn harvest, the roots left in the ground still clung stubbornly to the soil. They had to be dug out one by one with pickaxes, the dirt knocked off, then piled together to dry as firewood.
The soil was black—truly black earth. But it was still frozen. The surface had thawed, while underneath remained hard as stone.
“Two furrows per person. Dig from one end to the other.”
Captain Wang demonstrated the motion—raise the pickaxe, strike down, pry up, shake off the dirt, toss the stump aside. Clean and efficient.
It didn’t look difficult.
Lin Wan copied the movement and lifted the pickaxe assigned to her. It was heavier than she had imagined, the wooden handle rough against her palms. The first strike numbed the web between her thumb and index finger, barely chipping the soil. The corn root didn’t budge.
The commune women beside her had already begun working. Most were in their thirties or forties. Their movements weren’t fast, but steady—one swing for each stump, a quick shake, and most of the dirt fell away. They chatted and laughed occasionally, but their hands never stopped.
Lin Wan took a deep breath, adjusted her posture, and swung with all her strength.
This time the strike went deeper, loosening the root. She crouched down and pulled it free by hand. Frozen clumps of dirt still clung to the roots, forcing her to smash it against the ground repeatedly. One stump took her two or three minutes.
Meanwhile, the row of workers ahead had already advanced more than ten meters.
The sun gradually climbed higher, but the temperature barely changed. Lin Wan soon began sweating—not from heat, but exhaustion. Her padded jacket was soaked underneath, sticking to her back. Blisters formed on her palms, stinging whenever touched. Her lower back ached, and her arms grew heavier and heavier.
She gritted her teeth and kept going.
After every short stretch, she had to straighten up and gasp for breath. Looking ahead, the furrows seemed endless. All around her, commune members bent over the earth in labor, the black soil slowly revealing its true color behind them. Crows flew overhead in the distance, their cries harsh and raspy.
“Girl, don’t rush. Take it slow.”
An older woman beside her noticed her awkward movements and kindly advised her.
“Don’t raise the pickaxe too high—you’ll hurt your back. Use the strength from your waist, not just your arms.”
Lin Wan thanked her and adjusted her technique. It really did save some effort, though she was still slow.
Time crawled by. Every swing felt like a battle against the frozen earth. The blisters on her hands burst, blood smearing onto the pickaxe handle. She tore off a strip of cloth, wrapped her palms, and continued.
When the noon bell rang, Lin Wan had dug less than thirty meters.
Back at the threshing ground, work points were recorded. Captain Wang held a notebook, calling out names and completed amounts one by one. Most veteran workers earned eight or ten points.
When it came to the educated youths, Lin Wan heard her own name:
“Lin Wan, West Slope stubble digging. Thirty percent completed. Awarded… three work points.”
Three work points.
A full day’s labor earned ten points. She had worked half the day and earned only three. At Xiangyang Brigade’s rate of eight fen per point, her entire morning’s labor was worth twenty-four fen.
Lin Wan stood there, her palms throbbing, her back aching, her sweat long turned cold against her skin. Watching the recorder write down that number, an indescribable emotion welled up inside her.
Not grievance.
Clarity.
A clear realization that surviving by earning work points through farm labor might be possible in this era—but living well was far too difficult. This body of hers had never been strong to begin with. Even if she trained herself, at most she could probably earn seven or eight points a day. After a year of labor, once food rations were deducted, how much money would remain?
And this level of physical labor, day after day, year after year…
She remembered elderly locals she had met in her previous life while working in Northeast China. Those old farmers had bent backs and deformed joints by their fifties, their bodies riddled with ailments—the marks left behind by a lifetime of hard manual labor.
No.
Lin Wan clenched the cloth-wrapped hand tightly.
This was not the life she wanted.
Lunch at the educated youth residence was cornmeal buns and cabbage stewed with potatoes, almost without a trace of oil. She ate silently while the others quietly complained about exhaustion and the poor food. Zhou Xiaomei’s hands were blistered too, her eyes red as she missed home.
Lin Wan said nothing. After finishing her portion, she drank two bowls of hot water, then got up and headed to the supply cooperative.
The cooperative was tiny, just a single room. Limited goods sat behind the counter: soap, matches, kerosene, salt, sugar, needles and thread, pencils, exercise books. Several bolts of cloth hung on the wall, all dull gray in color.
She bought half a bar of soap (two mao), a pack of matches (five fen), and a jin of salt (one mao three fen). After hesitating for a moment, she also bought two liang of white sugar (one mao six fen)—sugar could restore energy, and if necessary, be used to trade favors.
Back at her lodging, she carefully cleaned the wounds on her hands with hot water. The burst blisters were red and painful even to the touch. She found some old cloth she had brought from home, tore it into strips, and rewrapped her hands.
In the afternoon, work resumed.
Still digging stubble.
Her hands hurt too much to grip the pickaxe properly, so she wrapped extra cloth around the handle. Her back felt as though it were breaking, every bend requiring clenched teeth and determination.
But she didn’t stop.
She couldn’t stop.
Even if it was only three work points, it was still her first step toward surviving in this world.