Sold into a ghost marriage? Four-year-old and his thuggish father go on a killing spree.

"Zhao Fengying, are you tired of living or have you lost your mind?!"

Liu Quanfa's voice was like thunder, making the window paper of the row of bungalows behind the supply and marketing cooperative tremble.

Zhao Fengying stood in front of the stove, pointing an iron spoon at his nose: "Liu Quanfa, keep your voice down! The child is asleep on the kang!"

"You're still protecting her!" Liu Quanfa pushed open the curtain and peeked onto the kang (heated brick bed), lowering his voice but his tone becoming even harsher. "You picked up a girl in a red wedding dress, do you know what that means? It's for a ghost marriage! A ghost marriage! The Wang family spent two hundred yuan to buy her, and you're hiding her in your house. Can you handle it when they come looking for her?"

Zhao Fengying remained silent.

She certainly knew what that meant.

She had worked at the supply and marketing cooperative for almost ten years and had seen all sorts of people. She knew the local customs well—although the state explicitly prohibited ghost marriages, such practices were rampant in remote rural areas. Especially for families like the Wang family, who had spent two hundred yuan to buy a living person for a ghost marriage, losing the "goods" would never be a reason to let it go.

Liu Quanfa was Zhao Fengying's neighbor, a warehouse keeper at the supply and marketing cooperative, and had known her for over a decade.

He is a timid and fearful person, but he is not a bad person. What really frightens him is the potential for being implicated.

"Fengying, to be frank," Liu Quanfa rubbed his hands, his tone softening, "you're a widow, living here all alone, leaving this child of unknown origin in your home. What will people say if word gets out? What if the Wang family comes after you? How will you, a woman, handle that?"

Zhao Fengying slammed the iron ladle onto the stove, causing the cornmeal broth to splash out.

"Liu Quanfa, have you seen that child's hands?"

"What?"

"All ten fingernails were torn off, a three-inch-long gash on her forehead, and her back was covered in old scars. A four-and-a-half-year-old girl, running barefoot in the snow all night in the dead of winter." Zhao Fengying's voice trembled, not from fear, but from anger. "You want me to throw her out? You want me to send her back to the Wang family? Send her back for what—to be buried with a man who's been dead for three days?!"

Liu Quanfa was speechless.

He opened his mouth, but couldn't say a word.

The room fell silent for a moment.

A very faint sound came from the kang (a heated brick bed).

Zhao Fengying turned around and saw that Niannian had woken up at some point and was huddled in the quilt in the corner of the kang, with half of her face showing.

Her small face still bore traces of frostbite and abrasions, and the wound on her forehead was wrapped with a strip of cloth, from which faint traces of blood seeped.

A pair of bright black eyes stared intently at Liu Quanfa, without tears, only a wariness and vigilance completely out of place for her age.

Like a small animal ready to escape at any moment.

When Liu Quanfa met those eyes, a chill ran down his spine.

It's not fear, it's discomfort.

He'd lived to be over sixty and had grandchildren of his own, so he knew what a four-year-old child should be like—

They should roll around on the ground, cry loudly, and burrow into their mother's arms when they see strangers.

It shouldn't be like this.

They shouldn't cower in the corner, silent, with eyes that only adults have.

Liu Quanfa swallowed hard, turned his face away, and refused to look.

"I'm not going to care anymore," he said in a muffled voice. "You figure it out yourself. Don't blame me if something goes wrong."

With a flick of the curtain, the person left.

Zhao Fengying let out a long breath.

She carried a bowl of warm corn porridge to the edge of the kang (a heated brick bed) and squatted down in front of Niannian.

"Girl, are you hungry? Have some porridge."

Niannian's gaze shifted from the curtain to Zhao Fengying's face.

She didn't take the bowl immediately.

"Auntie," Niannian's voice was still hoarse, like sandpaper being ground against her skin, "that uncle was right. I can't drag you down with me."

Zhao Fengying was stunned for a moment.

She thought she had misheard.

A four-and-a-half-year-old child said, "I can't be a burden to you"—where did he learn that?

No, it wasn't learned.

It was forced upon them.

Zhao Fengying felt a lump in her throat, but she tried her best to hold it back.

"Drink this porridge." She shoved the bowl into Niannian's hands, her tone curt. "Don't think about anything else. You only have one task right now—to get your body back in shape."

Niannian looked down at the golden corn porridge in the bowl, the steam warming her face.

She picked up the bowl and drank it in small sips.

Halfway through my drink, my hand trembled and I almost spilled the bowl.

Zhao Fengying reached out and supported the bottom of the bowl.

Niannian raised her head, her lips smeared with paste, her eyes red-rimmed, but she still didn't cry.

"Auntie, can I go see my dad?"

Zhao Fengying took out the folded note from the inside pocket of her cotton-padded jacket, unfolded it, and glanced at it.

"Gu Yanqiu, Chengjiawan Brigade, Qinghe County."

She carefully folded the note and put it back in her pocket.

"Yes, I can. Your aunt will help you find a way."

That afternoon, Zhao Fengying handed over the work at the supply and marketing cooperative to Xiao Chen at the counter and went to the town's post office.

The post office in Baima Town had only two rooms, a mailman, a switchboard operator, and Old Zhou, who ran the rural postal routes.

Old Zhou's real name is Zhou Changshun. He is in his fifties, tall and thin, and spends most of his time riding a 28-inch bicycle to deliver mail and newspapers between Baima Town and several surrounding communes.

His postal route went east, passing through three communes, and reaching as far as Qinghe County.

Zhao Fengying blocked Lao Zhou, who had just returned from delivering mail, at the entrance of the post office.

"Brother Changshun, I need to ask you for a favor."

Old Zhou leaned his bicycle against the wall, took off his dog-skin hat, and patted the snow: "What's up?"

"Tomorrow, take the eastern route and bring someone to Qinghe County for me."

Old Zhou was taken aback: "Who are you giving a ride to?"

"A little girl, four and a half years old, is going to Qinghe County to find her father."

Old Zhou's brows immediately furrowed: "Zhao Fengying, what are you doing? I'm delivering a letter, not a person. What if something happens to a four-year-old girl on the way? Who will be responsible?"

Zhao Fengying took out three yuan from her pocket and slapped it on Lao Zhou's bicycle seat.

Three yuan.

Old Zhou's monthly subsidy is only four yuan and fifty cents.

He stared at the three yuan for a long time, his expression changing several times.

"Just who is he?"

Zhao Fengying lowered her voice and gave a brief account of what had happened.

They didn't mention a ghost marriage, only that the child had been abducted by human traffickers, had escaped, and had her father's address on her person, and was to be sent to Qinghe County.

Old Zhou's expression changed as soon as the words "human trafficker" were uttered.

In rural China in 1964, child trafficking was not uncommon, but no one wanted to get involved in it.

Old Zhou hesitated for a long time.

"I can only take her to Qinghe County at most," he concluded. "Once we get there, she'll have to find someone herself. I'm not going to Chengjiawan; it's a 30-mile hike into the mountains, and my bicycle can't go that far."

"Okay!" Zhao Fengying readily agreed. "Once we get to Qinghe County, that's fine. I'll think of another way."

That evening, Zhao Fengying cooked a bowl of hot noodles for Niannian, with a poached egg in the noodles.

These days, eggs are precious; one can be exchanged for five cents.

Niannian held the bowl, her eyes fixed on the plump, white fried egg.

"Eat up," Zhao Fengying urged her.

Niannian took the poached egg out of the bowl and placed it next to Zhao Fengying's bowl.

"Auntie, eat up. You've been busy all day."

Zhao Fengying stopped.

She looked down at the fried egg, which was slightly deformed from being held by chopsticks, and her throat tightened.

"I don't like eggs, you eat them." Zhao Fengying put the egg back into Niannian's bowl.

Niannian didn't refuse anymore.

She ate the noodles and fried egg one bite at a time, and even drank all the soup.

Then she put down the bowl, climbed off the kang (a heated brick bed), and stood up straight.

"Auntie."

"Um?"

I'm leaving tomorrow.

"Um."

Nian Nian stared straight at Zhao Fengying, her bright black eyes filled with so much—gratitude, guilt, and a small, uncertain hope.

She bent down and gave Zhao Fengying a deep bow.

It wasn't the crooked, hunched-over look of a child; it was a full, deep bow, with the waist bent at a ninety-degree angle.

"Auntie, I'll remember you."

Niannian's voice was soft and childlike, but she pronounced every word clearly.

"I will definitely repay you in the future."

Zhao Fengying's nose stung with tears, so she turned her face away and pretended to poke the fire in the stove.

"Alright, alright, you need to survive first."

Her voice was muffled, and the fire in the stove made half of her face glow red, while the other half was hidden in shadow, making it impossible to see her expression.

The next morning, just as dawn broke, Zhao Fengying wrapped Niannian in her old cotton-padded coat and put her own old scarf on top, binding the child up like a rice dumpling.

Old Zhou's old-fashioned bicycle was parked in front of the post office, with a canvas mailbag strapped to the back seat.

Zhao Fengying lifted Niannian up and sat her next to the mailbag, loosely tying a rope around her waist to prevent her from falling.

"Once you get to Qinghe County, ask around for Chengjiawan," Zhao Fengying instructed one last time. "Remember your father's name—"

"Gu Yanqiu," Niannian replied, her voice soft but steady, "Chengjiawan Brigade."

Zhao Fengying nodded.

She took the note out of her pocket, hesitated for a moment, and instead of giving it to Niannian, she stuffed it into the innermost pocket of Niannian's cotton-padded jacket and sewed it in with two stitches.

"The note is here, don't lose it."

Old Zhou got on the bike and glanced back at the little girl in the back seat: "Sit tight, it'll be bumpy on the road, don't let go."

Niannian gripped the metal frame of the back seat tightly with both of her little hands, her fingertips still wrapped with the gauze that Zhao Fengying had given her.

The bicycle started moving.

Zhao Fengying stood at the entrance of the post office, watching the two figures, one big and one small, grow smaller and smaller as they walked along the dirt road.

The north wind blew into her collar, making her shiver.

"You need to survive first." Her words sounded like they were directed at Niannian, but also like they were directed at herself.

She didn't know if this skinny little girl, as thin as a stick, would make it to Chengjiawan alive.

She had no idea whether, even if she made it there, the man named Gu Yanqiu—a man who didn't even know he had a daughter—could be relied upon.

Zhao Fengying rubbed her sore nose, turned around and went into the supply and marketing cooperative.

Old Zhou's bicycle had already turned past the old locust tree at the entrance of town and disappeared into the gray morning mist.

In the back seat, Niannian glanced back at the direction of Baima Town.

There were no tears in her eyes.

But her lips moved, and she silently uttered four words, one after another.

Thank you, Auntie.

Then she turned her head and faced forward.

East.

Dad is on the east side.

The bicycle bounced along the frozen dirt road, each pothole making Nian Nian's bones creak.

Old Zhou didn't talk much, occasionally glancing back to make sure the child hadn't fallen.

On both sides of the road were bare fields, with withered yellow wheat stubble standing out in the gray-white snow like rows of broken teeth.

In the distance, several utility poles stood crookedly, and a row of dusty sparrows perched on the wires.

Niannian sat on the back seat, hugging her knees, the cold wind making her face flush red.

But she didn't feel cold.

Compared to the darkness and stench inside the coffin, compared to the pain of walking barefoot on gravel in the snowy night, what is this little bit of cold?

She is alive.

She was walking towards her father.

This is enough.