Waking up on the list of enemies

The mornings in Qingli Town were awakened by the blaring of horns. The Westland Highway cuts through the center of the town. Just as dawn broke, the first batch of dump trucks hauling ore roared in, one after another, causing the mud walls along the roadside to crumble. The drivers rushed along, not slowing down when passing, the gusts of wind whipping up the plastic sheets of breakfast stalls, making a loud slapping sound. The townspeople were used to it; if they were woken up, they'd curse, turn over, and go back to sleep. The freight yard was at the east end of town. The blue flag of Lanchuan Mining was planted atop the weighbridge, its original color obscured by coal dust. Atao arrived earlier than the chickens. He squatted at the entrance of the freight yard, holding half a cold steamed bun, carefully munching on it bite by bite. The bun was from the clinic yesterday; it was a little hard, so he held it in his mouth a little longer to soften it before swallowing. "Hey, you're up early today, you idiot." Old Zhao, the gatekeeper, opened the iron gate a c***k. "Come in, lots of work today." Atao quickly stuffed his steamed bun down his throat, dusted off his hands, and squeezed inside. The freight yard was already bustling. Weighing, issuing invoices, carrying bags—it was a cacophony of noise. A dump truck was slowly moving onto the scales. The driver leaned out and offered a cigarette to someone in the weighbridge. Once the cigarette was accepted, the weight on the scale slip became negotiable—this wasn't news in Qingli Town, it was commonplace. The freight yard belonged to Lanchuan Mining, and everything coming in and out was from the mine: ore, pit prop, cement. This scale in the weighbridge was the only large one in the town; everything else from the town needed to get out of the mountains eventually had to pass through this gate. Atao's job was the simplest: carrying bundles of pit prop from the mine from the platform to the truck. Each bundle weighed sixty jin (approximately 30 kg), and he was paid two cents per bundle. He was thin, but incredibly strong. Two calluses rubbed hard against his shoulders; with a sixty-pound bundle on his back, he walked steadily and quickly. The hemp rope binding the bundles cut into his hands, but he knew how to align the rope with his calluses—a skill honed over two years of carrying loads. "Tao, this trip's in a rush, you're handling it all by yourself," the seasoned ticket seller shoved a stack of slips into his arms. "Thirty bundles, I'll give you fifty cents after you've carried them all." A fellow porter nearby laughed: "Old Liu, you're ripping off the i***t again, thirty bundles for six cents!" "Can he even count them?" the seasoned seller asked nonchalantly. "Tao, fifty cents, is that alright?" Tao nodded. He could count them. He just wouldn't say anything. No one would listen anyway, and he'd get beaten up. He'd understood this long ago after three years. In Qingli Town, a fool's greatest skill was making everyone feel like they were getting a bargain. When the sun climbed halfway up the mountain, the thirty bundles were finished. Atao sat in the shade, catching his breath. He pulled a plastic bottle from his pocket, poured out two brown pills, and swallowed them with cold water. The medicine was from a clinic. A small batch number was printed on the bottom of the bottle, its texture irritating his sweaty hands. He couldn't remember how many years he'd been taking this medicine, only that a voice had told him: "Take it on time, don't stop." Whose voice was it? He couldn't remember. Thinking about it made the old scar on his right eyebrow throb. He raised his thumb, pressed it against the scar, and slowly rubbed it. When the throbbing stopped, he lowered his hand, reverting to his vacant, foolish self. "Fool! Come give me a hand!" A shout came from the weighbridge. Atao tucked the bottle away and jogged over. A little after ten in the morning, the entrance to the freight yard quieted down. A slightly worn white ambulance drove from town and parked in the open space opposite the freight yard. The truck was old, its white paint yellowed, but it was spotless, even the mud in the wheel rims had been cleaned. A brass plaque was nailed below the door, shimmering in the sunlight; the words "Hongyue Charity Foundation" were barely legible, with a name below in smaller print. Mu Qing got out of the truck. Her white coat was thin from washing, and her hair was tied tightly back. She carried her medicine kit into the freight yard. The drivers all recognized her and greeted her. Dr. Mu came twice a month to check the blood pressure of long-haul drivers and give them heatstroke medication, all free of charge. "160 systolic, and you're still driving at night?" She put away the blood pressure monitor, looking at the dark-skinned, overweight driver before her. "You're not going anywhere today." "Grandma, I have a shipment." "Is the shipment more important than your life?" The driver chuckled, not daring to argue. No one in Qingli Town dared to argue with Mu Qing. She was the most educated person in town, and the only one who could insult someone without using profanity, yet still make them look down on you. An old driver approached, coughing hysterically, saying he couldn't breathe at night. Mu Qing made him open his mouth to look, then lifted his eyelids to examine him. Her brow furrowed, and she told him to go to the clinic for an X-ray, not to delay. The old driver chuckled and said okay, took two boxes of cough medicine, and climbed into the driver's seat. Mu Qing watched his retreating figure, stood there for two seconds, and said nothing. After distributing the medicine, she found Atao in a corner of the freight yard. He was squatting on the ground, intently drawing circles with a half-burnt charcoal ember. There were already several such circles along the wall, accumulated over the past two years. "Atao," she called. Atao looked up and grinned. He was tall, with fairly regular features, but the scar on his right eyebrow slanted down, and his constant,** (simple-minded) smile made him seem like something was missing. "Did you take your medicine?" Atao nodded vigorously, pulling a plastic bottle from his pocket to show her. Mu Qing took it and shook it; there was still a little over half left. She handed the bottle back to him and took a still-warm vegetable bun from her cloth bag: "Eat." Atao took it, took a big bite, and mumbled, "Hello, Dr. Mu." "Hello what? All you know is eating." Mu Qing looked at him, her gaze lingering on his face. Three years. Three years ago, Grandpa Qi brought him to the town, and as soon as they arrived, he was taken to the clinic. At that time, his head was wrapped in a blood-stained cloth; he didn't recognize anyone, couldn't speak, and could only shake his head when asked anything. Grandpa Qi stayed by his bedside for half a month, then passed away, leaving only this half-grown boy, bewildered and left behind in Qingli Town. The whole town laughed at him, only the clinic treated him like a human being. "I need to go up the mountain this afternoon," Mu Qing said. "The Zhou family's wife in Laoyaogou isn't doing well. Can you help me carry the medicine box? Want to come?" Atao nodded vigorously, dropping crumbs of steamed bun all over the ground. Mu Qing reached out and brushed the crumbs off his shoulder, a natural gesture, like brushing dust off his own younger brother. At the other end of the freight yard, the truck driver, Pi San, a cigarette dangling from his lips, watched from afar. He squinted, took out his phone, dialed a number, and spoke a few words in a low voice. After hanging up, he threw the cigarette butt on the ground, stomped it out, and gestured to the driver beside him. The driver understood and headed towards the parking lot. At two o'clock in the afternoon, the ambulance entered the winding mountain road. Laoyaogou is halfway up the mountain. The road is narrow, with a mountain wall on one side and a ravine on the other. Mu Qing drives, and A Tao sits in the back, holding a medicine box, looking out at the mountains. The mountains are beautiful, but they've been haphazardly mined, exposing patches of red soil like scabs on a person's skin. The water in the ditch beside the road is an odd color, murky, with an indescribable sheen. A Tao peers out the window, while Mu Qing glances at the ditch in the rearview mirror, his grip on the steering wheel tightening, but he says nothing. Zhou's wife had a premature birth, and it wasn't until four in the afternoon that the labor was stable. Zhou's husband squatted on the doorstep, smoking one cigarette after another. Hearing the baby cry, he plopped down on the ground and didn't get up for a long time. Mu Qing packed her things, gave her a bunch of instructions, and the man tried to put an egg in her hand, but she refused, only saying she'd come back for a check-up. When they left, the sky was already setting. The ambulance was parked in an open area at the bottom of the slope. Above the open area was a temporary storage yard, piled high with a dozen truckloads of ore, and two dump trucks parked side by side. Mu Qing walked ahead, with A Tao following behind carrying a medical kit. When they reached the middle of the open area, A Tao suddenly stopped. He heard a sound. Very light. Like something metal hitting a rock. He looked up. On the slope, the outer dump truck's cab door was open, but no one was inside. The truck was moving. Very slowly, inch by inch, it was sliding down the slope. The truck bed was full of ore, the whole truck resembling a small, moving mountain. And directly below the slope, Mu Qing, with his back to it, was taking out his car keys. Later, Mu Qing thought, A Tao's sudden lunge didn't seem like that of a fool at all. A fool wouldn't react. A fool would just stand and watch. But Atao moved almost the instant the truck began to skid, taking two strides behind her and slamming her into the roadside ditch. The medicine box flew through the air, herbs scattered everywhere. The dump truck skidded past the open space, crashing into the ditch with a deafening roar, ore cascading down like a rain of stones. In the billowing dust, Atao lay motionless on the ground. His head had struck the angle iron of the truck bed; blood streamed down his right eyebrow, into his eyes, and dripped onto the gravel. Mu Qing crawled out of the ditch and rushed to his side, her hands trembling. "Atao! Atao!" She checked his breathing first, then felt his neck, her movements swift and decisive. He was still breathing; his pulse was erratic but strong. In the time it took to tear open the zipper, blood had already soaked half her sleeve. Atao couldn't hear her. He was submerged in darkness, an impenetrable blackness. But just before he completely sank in, a burst of fire suddenly erupted from that darkness. Firelight. Many people shouted. An old voice whispered in his ear, each word distinct: Live. On the slope, Pi San poked half his head out from behind the quarry, his face pale. He shakily pulled out his phone, dialed, and bent over the moment the call connected. "Hello, something...something went wrong. Dr. Mu is fine, perfectly alright. It was that i***t, he suddenly appeared out of nowhere, lunged, and hit his head. He's dead or alive." There was silence on the other end of the line for a few seconds. The silence was so profound that sweat poured down Pi San's forehead. Then something was said on the other end. Pi San nodded repeatedly: "Understood, understood, I'll keep an eye on him, I'll handle it." After hanging up, Pi San looked at the figures circling the i***t in the dusty ground below the slope and spat fiercely. "What kind of hero is this, a fool?"