The Devil's Temperature

He is not dirty

Bei Yao’s illness lingered until August. The fragile body of a four-year-old fiercely rejected the memories of her past life; whenever Bei Yao regained consciousness, she would scribble notes in her exercise book, then hide it in the narrow gap between her bedhead and the cabinet—a spot Zhao Zhilan never cleaned.

By early August, the sweltering peak of summer arrived.

At last, Bei Yao’s memories stabilized, though they only extended as far as the third grade of elementary school—the limit of what this soft, young body could bear. She vaguely knew she had been reborn, and she knew she must be kind to Pei Chuan, yet she could not articulate why when pressed.

Her current cognitive level, stuck at third grade, left her unable to fully comprehend the notes she had written earlier when she rediscovered the exercise book. She recognized some characters but stumbled over others, yet a deep sense of urgency compelled her to hide the book away once more.

Bei Yao’s prolonged illness had left Zhao Zhilan and Bei Licai distraught. Bei Licai, smoking a cigarette, said, “When Yaoyao turns four, we’ll hang red cloths and set off firecrackers to drive away the bad luck.” Zhao Zhilan agreed without hesitation. In the 1990s, child mortality rates were far higher than in later years; Bei Yao was their first child, and though the mindset of preferring sons over daughters still prevailed (her grandmother disliked her), the couple cherished their daughter deeply.

Once Bei Yao recovered, she naturally had to return to kindergarten.

Viewing the world through the lens of a third-grader brought unexpected clarity—she was no longer restless, and her clear eyes now held a newfound sense of wonder and curiosity about the world.

The path to kindergarten was lined with summer blooms.

Bei Yao’s gaze was fixed, transfixed by the lotus flowers in the pond.

In the end, she begged Zhao Zhilan to pick one for her.

Zhao Zhilan was exasperated. Their residential compound, a housing complex for relocated families, was still under construction, and the lotus plants seemed to belong to someone else. She tried to scare Bei Yao: “Those belong to someone else! If we get caught, they’ll lock you up!”

Bei Yao’s large eyes remained clear and earnest: “We can buy one.”

“Fine, fine.” Zhao Zhilan glanced around, found the owner of the lotus plants, and paid fifty cents for a lotus flower with a seed pod. She fetched a twig, hooked the stem, and plucked the flower to give to Bei Yao.

Bei Yao knew fifty cents was no small sum—her New Year’s red envelope had only contained one yuan.

Zhao Zhilan had grudgingly bought the flower only because she felt sorry for Bei Yao’s recent illness.

Little Bei Yao was tiny, so Zhao Zhilan had left an unusually long stem on the flower to make it easier for her to hold. Bei Yao clutched it carefully, the bloom nearly hiding her entire face.

When they reached the kindergarten, Teacher Xiao Wu had already returned to work. Gentler even than Teacher Xiao Zhao, she had taken half a month off for her wedding. Slightly plump, her smile radiated the sincere joy of a newly married woman: “Yaoyao, what a beautiful flower! Come play games with the other children.”

Teacher Xiao Wu took her by the hand and led her inside.

Teacher Xiao Zhao was distributing cream-filled biscuits.

Such biscuits were only given out once a month; ordinary round crackers were the usual treat. For the children, the monthly day of cream-filled biscuits was eagerly anticipated.

Bei Yao hugged her flower and looked around.

The round tables were filled with children. Each child, upon receiving a biscuit, would first lick it gently, then take tiny bites—making a single biscuit last ten minutes.

Her eyes immediately found Pei Chuan.

A biscuit sat before him on the table, untouched—as if it were not a treat beloved by all children, but a piece of charcoal.

Bei Yao dimly realized he seemed even thinner than a few days prior.

The frail little boy, dressed in a dark blue summer outfit, looked as if there was nothing but emptiness beneath his clothes.

He stared out the window at the toon tree, his pupils dark as ink.

When Bei Yao walked in holding her flower, he glanced at her briefly, then turned his eyes back to the window.

Xiang Tongtong, nibbling on her biscuit like a little hamster, lit up when she saw Bei Yao: “Yaoyao! Your flower is so pretty!”

Bei Yao nodded, her almond-shaped eyes curving into smiles.

“Tongtong.”

Xiang Tongtong was her classmate in both kindergarten and, later, elementary school.

“Can I have a petal?”

“Sure.” Bei Yao carefully plucked an outer petal with her chubby fingers and handed it to her.

Xiang Tongtong sniffed it: “It smells nice!”

Bei Yao knew she should be kind to Pei Chuan, but her young, easily distracted mind wavered. She had originally intended the flower for Pei Chuan, yet now she hesitated to part with it. She decided to admire it with Xiang Tongtong a little longer before giving it to him.

As they chatted, a chubby hand reached over and snatched the biscuit from in front of Pei Chuan.

Pei Chuan whipped around suddenly, his face expressionless as he fixed his gaze on Chen Hu.

Chen Hu swallowed nervously, then waved a fist at him: “What’s it to you! You can’t beat me!”

After all, Pei Chuan wasn’t going to eat it—so why shouldn’t he have it? Besides, he’d taken Pei Chuan’s biscuit countless times before with no consequences.

With that thought, he quickly licked the biscuit while the teachers weren’t looking. But when he saw Pei Chuan still staring at him coldly, Chen Hu felt both guilty and annoyed.

Fang Minjun wore an air of haughtiness far beyond her years: “His biscuit is dirty, Chen Hu. Don’t eat it.”

Chen Hu’s face burned with embarrassment.

He tossed the half-licked biscuit back toward Pei Chuan, deciding he didn’t want it anymore.

Minmin was right—Pei Chuan wet his pants, so his biscuit must be filthy.

The cream-filled biscuit missed its mark, sliding off the edge of the table and landing beside Pei Chuan’s wheelchair.

Pei Chuan’s pale hands tightened suddenly around the wheelchair’s armrests as he wheeled himself toward Chen Hu. He grabbed Chen Hu by the collar and dragged him closer.

Chen Hu froze: “Mute! What are you doing!”

Since losing his legs, Pei Chuan had stopped speaking to the other children.

At first, they had still called him Pei Chuan, but now they simply called him “the mute.”

Chen Hu was stocky and refused to let himself be manhandled. He shoved Pei Chuan hard—sending the thin boy’s chest reeling backward. Pei Chuan’s pupils remained dark and empty; he grabbed Chen Hu’s arm and bit down hard.

“Waaaaah!” Chen Hu burst into tears, screaming in pain.

Teacher Xiao Wu was the first to notice the commotion. She rushed over to pull the children apart, and chaos erupted in the kindergarten.

Bei Yao, still clutching her flower, caught a glimpse of Pei Chuan’s eyes. He was biting Chen Hu’s arm, his forehead covered in sweat, and through the cluster of children, his gaze found hers.

When Bei Yao met his eyes, he closed them again—yet his jaws remained locked, as if he meant to tear a piece of flesh from the chubby boy.

Chen Hu cried and hit Pei Chuan’s head, but Pei Chuan moved like a painless robot, biting down even harder the next second.

Teacher Xiao Wu couldn’t pry them apart. In desperation, she pinched Pei Chuan’s jaw firmly: “Pei Chuan! Let go!”

The children, witnessing such a violent scene for the first time, were all stunned into silence.

Blood trickled from the corner of Pei Chuan’s mouth—no one could tell if it was his or Chen Hu’s.

Teacher Xiao Wu panicked.

Good heavens—she was squeezing the child’s cheek with all her strength, yet he still wouldn’t release his grip. Teacher Xiao Zhao hurried in, and her heart nearly stopped at the sight.

She gently stroked Pei Chuan’s head: “Xiao Chuan, let go, okay? Teacher’s here… I’m right here…”

Pei Chuan opened his eyes and slowly released his jaw.

Teacher Xiao Wu quickly pulled Chen Hu’s arm free. A deep, bleeding bite mark was etched into his skin.

The two teachers exchanged a glance, their faces turning pale.

Teacher Xiao Wu picked up Chen Hu to soothe him, while Teacher Xiao Zhao hurried to call the parents.

Under the August sun, Chen Hu sobbed so hard that snot bubbles formed at his nose.

The children, terrified, all drew away from Pei Chuan.

Xiang Tongtong’s eyes glistened with tears: “He’s so scary—he bites people.”

Bei Yao held the lotus flower, which was almost as tall as she was, and noticed no one was paying attention to Pei Chuan. He wiped the blood from his lips and stared silently at the crushed biscuit on the floor.

Chen Hu, in the teacher’s arms, gasped for breath between sobs: “Teacher… let’s go… let’s leave…”

“It’s okay, sweetie. Teacher will carry you out.”

Fang Minjun’s face was pale. She had been sitting next to Pei Chuan when the fight broke out. She had barely held back her tears—her mother had told her that the Hong Kong actress she resembled was a “cold beauty,” so as a “little jade beauty” herself, she must not cry.

Now, she didn’t dare sit near Pei Chuan either. She fled to the outside of the classroom in one breath.

Bei Yao glanced at the teacher comforting Chen Hu, then her eyes lit up. She waddled over to Pei Chuan on her short legs and placed the lotus flower in his lap.

“For you.”

She turned to look at Teacher Xiao Wu by the door, who was patting Chen Hu’s back and murmuring, “It doesn’t hurt… it’s okay…”

Bei Yao turned back, tilting her head to look up at the little boy in the wheelchair. She was only tall enough to pat his forearm lightly, and her soft, childlike voice cooed: “It doesn’t hurt… it’s okay…”

The corner of his mouth still had traces of un-wiped blood, and the absurdly large lotus flower rested in his lap.

The delicate fragrance of the lotus, mingling with the milky scent of the little girl, surrounded him. Her chubby little hand patted gently, her exposed forearm soft as a tender dragonfly alighting silently on a summer leaf.

His head, hit by Chen Hu earlier, still throbbed with pain.

He lowered his eyes to her. Her almond-shaped eyes shimmered like pools of clear water: “It doesn’t hurt… really…”

The sun blazed brightly, dazzling and painful to the eyes. He set the lotus flower down on the table, brushed her little hand aside, and wheeled himself away from her.

Bei Yao watched his thin, retreating figure with a crestfallen look, then walked toward Xiang Tongtong.

Little Xiang Tongtong’s nose was bright red. She took Bei Yao’s hand, trying to pull her outside.

Li Da, Chen Hu’s closest friend in the class, shouted: “Pei Chuan is a dog!”

Several children immediately nodded in agreement.

Bei Yao turned back. The thin figure by the window remained motionless.

“Mom says people who bite are like dogs. Yaoyao, we shouldn’t play with him.”

Bei Yao had large eyes and long, curly eyelashes; when she blinked, she looked so endearing it made people want to stroke her hair. Her small face grew serious as she shook her head: “He’s not a dog.” She raised her voice to tell Xiang Tongtong and the other children, “His name is Pei Chuan. My mom says ‘Chuan’ means ‘river’—and rivers are very clean.”

Pei Chuan lowered his eyes.

The little girl’s voice was tender and clear, like the tinkle of wind chimes.

Since losing his legs, so many people had called him dirty.

All the kindergarten children still remembered the day he had wet his pants.

But he wasn’t dirty. He had learned to dress himself long ago, and he washed his hands carefully three times after using the toilet. Pei Chuan was even more precocious than other children his age—he could already solve arithmetic problems. Yet somehow, losing his legs had turned him into something “dirty” in their eyes.

His father had named him “Chuan” (*) to evoke the idea of “the sea embracing a hundred rivers”—a symbol of breadth and tolerance.

Though he didn’t fully understand its meaning, he knew it was a good name.

Yet even this noble, upright name had been sullied and drained of meaning since his legs were cut off.

Chen Hu’s parents arrived first—both his father and mother came.

The children all recognized Chen Hu’s father, a burly man with a broad back and strong shoulders. His eyes bulged like brass bells as he pointed at Pei Chuan: “You little brat! If anything happens to my **，I’ll beat you to death!”

Chen Hu, hearing this, sobbed even harder, overwhelmed by grievance.

Chen Hu’s mother also glared at Pei Chuan before picking up her child to take him to the clinic.

Teacher Xiao Wu stood awkwardly aside: “I’m so sorry—we didn’t watch the children carefully. Please take Xiao Hu to get treatment right away.”

The couple finally left, carrying Chen Hu.

Half an hour later, Pei Chuan’s mother, Jiang Wenjuan, arrived. She had a delicate face, her hair neatly coiled at the back of her head—clean and efficient.

She was a gentle-looking woman, and Pei Chuan took after her; his features were handsome, though his father’s influence gave his face a deeper, more defined outline.

Jiang Wenjuan had already heard what had happened from Teacher Xiao Zhao on her way over.

The woman said nothing. She first smiled at Pei Chuan, then leaned down to stroke his head.

Bei Yao watched as a faint light gradually returned to the silent little boy’s eyes—as if spring had come to a frozen land, and tender green shoots were sprouting from withered wood. Those tiny sparks of light added color to his dark, ink-like pupils. When Jiang Wenjuan pushed the wheelchair toward the door, Bei Yao heard the boy’s hoarse voice, barely a whisper: “Mom.”

He could speak—he just chose not to.

Even a young child harbors a clear sense of right and wrong, drawing firm lines between those he trusts and those he doesn’t.

Bei Yao blinked, leaning against the doorframe, watching their retreating figures with eager eyes.

When would Pei Chuan finally be willing to talk to her?