The Devil's Temperature

But I am short

The August sunset wrapped Bei Yao in a warm glow as she spread her small palm open for Zhao Zhilan to see.

Five chocolates rested in her palm. Zhao Zhilan picked one up, examining it: “Did that child give you these? They’re not cheap at all.”

They were “Qishilin” chocolates, each in a red wrapper, all produced in City T.

Childhood held few luxuries; even a piece of candy was enough to spark joy, let alone chocolates of this brand. When Zhao Zhilan had married Bei Licai, the Bei family had been in debt. Though they never argue with Bei Yao after her birth, such little treats were rarely bought for her.

One “Qishilin” chocolate cost two yuan—five of them, heavy in the hand, totaled a full ten yuan.

To little Bei Yao, even in her third-grade mindset, ten yuan was a “fortune.” Clutching this “fortune” from Pei Chuan, she felt a flutter of nervousness. Zhao Zhilan looked at her daughter’s innocent, endearing face and softened: “Since you’ve accepted them, keep them. From now on, whenever Mom makes something nice to eat, you can bring a little to Xiao Chuan.”

Bei Yao nodded vigorously, breaking into a smile: “Mom, you eat one.”

“Keep them for yourself. Mom doesn’t like sweet things.”

“Then give one to Dad.”

“Dad doesn’t like them either.”

Chocolate contained alkali that stirred feelings of happiness. Bei Yao sank her two rows of small white teeth into a piece; as it melted on her tongue, tiny sparks of delight lit up her eyes.

She ate only one, unable to bear finishing the rest. She hid the remaining chocolates in her drawer, saving them for when she craved a sweet treat.

August slipped by quickly, and by the middle of the month—on the 17th—it was Bei Yao’s fourth birthday. The celebration was simple: a pack of candies and a bowl of sweetened eggs. After eating, she went to kindergarten as usual.

The children sang “Happy Birthday” to her in their tender voices. Bei Yao looked at the empty seat in the corner, a faint sadness settling over her.

Xiang Tongtong said: “I’m going to preschool this year.”

Several younger children looked at her with envy.

Chen Hu had returned to kindergarten. Being older, he was also among those set to attend preschool to learn basics. He asked Fang Minjun: “Minmin, are you going too?”

Fang Minjun shook her head: “No. Mom says I’m still too young.”

Chen Hu declared: “That little mute is going! I’m definitely going to beat him up!” He mimicked his father’s gruff tone, waving a fist. Being bitten by a legless child had left both a shadow and a shame in Chen Hu’s heart—he was determined to get revenge.

Bei Yao looked at the chubby Chen Hu and frowned.

She knew she should stay in kindergarten for another year; she had always been a grade below Pei Chuan. But if Pei Chuan’s preschool class was full of kids like Chen Hu, would he never have any friends?

Back home, Bei Yao asked Zhao Zhilan: “Mom, can I make a birthday wish?”

Her bright eyes were clear and innocent. Lately, she had been exceptionally well-behaved—as if turning four had made her suddenly more obedient. Zhao Zhilan told her to go ahead.

“I want to go to preschool.”

Zhao Zhilan refused without hesitation: “No. You just turned four; you have to wait until you’re five. You can’t run before you can walk. Those older kids go to learn writing—you should stay in kindergarten and play games with the other children.”

“I don’t want to play games,” Bei Yao said seriously. “I want to learn to write.”

Zhao Zhilan couldn’t help but laugh.

Her daughter was a little slow-witted; she had always been slower to react than other children. The teacher had once said that while other kids learned a nursery rhyme in three tries, Bei Yao needed five—and if five wasn’t enough, she would hum it to herself slowly ten times.

Zhao Zhilan dismissed Bei Yao’s request as a childish fancy. Matters concerning her child’s future were too important to let Bei Yao’s whims decide; falling behind at the start would make it hard to catch up later.

Bei Yao wasn’t discouraged by the refusal. She went back to her room, then emerged at dinnertime to show her grid-paper notebook to her parents.

Zhao Zhilan stared at it in shock.

Both pages were filled: the left side with Chinese characters—rows of ‘’big “ ‘’ small “ ‘’many‘’, and “few‘’.

Bei Yao’s writing was tiny, taking up less than half the grid squares, yet each stroke was careful and deliberate.

The right side had addition problems: “1+1,” “1+2,” up to “1+5.” Even this simple arithmetic left Zhao Zhilan astounded. Kindergartens back then were little more than large nurseries, where children mostly sang songs together. Formal learning usually began in preschool, and multiplication tables were taught in first grade.

Bei Yao watched her mother anxiously.

Zhao Zhilan asked: “How did you learn all this?”

Bei Yao’s heart raced: “From the walls at kindergarten.”

Before Zhao Zhilan could speak, Bei Licai laughed loudly: “Our Yaoyao is a little genius!”

Bei Yao knew her father was less perceptive than her mother. With her third-grade memories, writing basic characters and doing simple addition was easy—but she had deliberately chosen only simple things, afraid of arousing Zhao Zhilan’s suspicion.

Zhao Zhilan thought for a moment, then asked: “What’s 2+2?”

A little flustered, Bei Yao lowered her head and counted on her fingers. After a moment, she held up four soft digits.

Zhao Zhilan looked at the small fingers sticking up beside her daughter’s cheek, then kissed Bei Yao’s face fiercely!

Finally—she, Zhao Zhilan, had something to outshine Zhao Xiu! It was a moment of triumphant pride!

“We’ll sign you up for preschool. Tomorrow, Mom will go talk to the teacher!”

Bei Yao’s almond eyes crinkled into a bright, radiant smile.

By the time small wild chrysanthemums on the roadside began to bud, September arrived.

City C usually had a rainstorm on the first day of school each year.

September 1, 1996, was no exception. Pei Chuan watched as the road was instantly soaked, his pale fingers resting on his wheelchair, his thoughts unreadable.

Jiang Wenjuan, fearing he would get wet, helped him put on a raincoat.

The night before, Jiang Wenjuan had spoken to her husband calmly for the first time in ages. She was extremely worried about Pei Chuan starting preschool. Ever since Pei Chuan’s legs had been severed, she had been haunted by nightmares of blood and gore—repeating visions that tormented her as a mother. In the aftermath, she had grown to resent her quiet, withdrawn husband more each day.

Yet enrolling Pei Chuan required Pei Haobin to pull strings.

There were no special education schools near their home, nor had the country established such institutions that year. For Jiang Wenjuan, the thought of sending Pei Chuan to one filled her with dread—it would be like stamping him with a label of “permanently disabled” for life.

Chaoyang Primary School had two preschool classes: Preschool Class 1 and 2. The Chinese teacher for Preschool Class 1 happened to be Pei Haobin’s junior high classmate, Teacher Yu. She had long known about Pei Chuan’s situation, so when Pei Haobin asked for help, she agreed immediately.

Chaoyang Primary School was a 15-minute walk from their neighborhood. Pei Haobin started his motorcycle and signaled for Jiang Wenjuan to lift Pei Chuan onto the seat.

The wheelchair was tied to the back of the motorcycle with leather straps, and Pei Chuan was settled in front.

Pei Haobin held his son carefully, his voice deliberately light: “Let’s go!”

Pei Chuan gripped the metal bar at the front of the motorcycle, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

As the light rain drizzled down, Pei Chuan’s expression faded once they were out of his mother’s sight. Behind him was his father’s broad chest; Pei Haobin rode slowly, so few raindrops hit Pei Chuan’s face. Pei Chuan stared at the rain curtain, knowing he was about to enter a new environment.

He didn’t want to go, but he knew he had to.

Because of this preschool enrollment, his mother had finally spoken to his father again. He wanted a complete, normal family—even if his own body was no longer whole.

Pei Chuan clung tightly to the metal bar. On the way to school that day, many elementary school students passed by with their schoolbags, casting curious glances at Pei Haobin’s motorcycle.

The engine roared loudly.

When Pei Chuan was three, Pei Haobin had bought this motorcycle. Back then, little Pei Chuan had been thrilled to ride it, feeling like a cool little superhero. Everyone around had looked on with envy. Now, sitting on it again, as those envious gazes turned to odd stares, Pei Chuan lowered his eyes in sorrow.

Along the way, he saw countless young, innocent faces—full of vitality, just like the name of Chaoyang (“Morning Sun”) Primary School. The children brimmed with hope for their futures.

Pei Haobin dropped him off at the door to Teacher Yu’s office. Pei Chuan sat in his wheelchair, a water bottle hanging from its side—filled with boiled water by Jiang Wenjuan for him to drink when thirsty.

Summer lingered in September; the plane trees at Chaoyang Primary School were lush and green.

The gentle Chinese teacher, Yu Qian, held out her hand to him: “Hello, little Pei Chuan. I’m Teacher Yu, and I’m also your dad’s friend. I’ll teach you knowledge from now on, and I’ll take good care of you too.”

Pei Chuan’s cold, pale fingers wrapped around hers, and he offered a polite smile.

He still refused to speak to people he wasn’t close to.

Teacher Yu, already briefed on Pei Chuan’s situation, said to Pei Haobin: “Go to work. I’ll look after him.”

Once Pei Haobin left, Teacher Yu told Pei Chuan: “If you need to go to the bathroom, just raise your hand and tell me, okay?”

Pei Chuan’s dark pupils fixed on her silently. After a moment, he nodded.

“Everyone in preschool is new here. Maybe you’ll meet some friends from your old kindergarten!”

Pei Chuan forced a faint smile, but his eyes remained cold.

He didn’t want to see any of them.

The sun rose gradually, and the rain stopped. Teacher Yu pushed Pei Chuan toward the classroom.

As they entered, curious eyes turned to them.

The room was filled with young children in colorful clothes—some neat, some still with runny noses. Teacher Yu smiled warmly and settled Pei Chuan in the first row by the window, right below the podium.

Chen Hu, sitting at the back, had been messing around with Li Da. When he saw the teacher pushing Pei Chuan in, his eyes widened.

Great! They really were in the same class!

“You all met me when you came to register yesterday. I’m Teacher Yu,” she said. “First, I’ll adjust everyone’s seats based on height—does that sound good?”

The children chorused: “Good!”

“Now, everyone stand up and compare heights. Shorter children will sit in the front, and taller ones will sit at the back for now.”

The kids obeyed, but judging their own heights proved tricky. Teacher Yu and Teacher Zheng, the male math teacher, helped rearrange them.

Teacher Yu frowned—she noticed several children were missing.

With the rain, some who lived far away were probably late. For now, though, they had to finish adjusting the seats.

Teacher Zheng whispered: “We’re pairing students two to a desk. There are exactly 58 kids—who will sit with Pei Chuan?”

Teacher Yu froze, but quickly recovered. Smiling, she asked the children: “Pei Chuan’s legs are hurt, and he needs everyone’s care. Which brave, kind child would like to sit with him in the first row?”

Pei Chuan’s pupils contracted almost imperceptibly.

The children glanced at each other, then at Pei Chuan in his wheelchair—his legs ending empty below the knees.

A few looked at the teacher and raised their hands hesitantly.

Teacher Yu was pleased. She turned to Pei Chuan: “Xiao Chuan, which classmate would you like to sit with?”

Pei Chuan’s eyes scanned the raised hands.

He rarely smiled; his eyes were dull, like a damp, shadowy corner where sunlight refused to reach. Wherever his gaze fell, the hands that had been raised tentatively slowly lowered.

The two teachers exchanged an awkward look. Teacher Zheng said: “Let the other children sit first. A few more are still on their way.”

As the kids settled into their seats, Chen Hu glanced around, whispering to others about how Pei Chuan had wet his pants and bitten people in kindergarten. Astonished expressions appeared on the children’s faces, and secret glances drifted toward the lonely desk in the first row.

Pei Chuan clenched his fists, his gaze fixed on the tall plane tree outside the window.

The rain had stopped, and remaining droplets slid down the leaves. He sat in the shade, his lips slightly chapped—but he didn’t touch the water bottle beside him.

Drinking water would make him need to use the bathroom.

A girl arrived late. Two small buns on her head were tied with pink ribbons, damp from the rain. Standing at the door, she called out in a clear voice: “May I come in?”

Teacher Yu looked over—it was the youngest child in the class.

The walk took older children 15 minutes; Bei Yao’s short legs required 25. With the rain, Zhao Zhilan had carried her part of the way, and when she couldn’t carry her anymore, Bei Yao had walked the rest.

They had hurried, but she was still over ten minutes late.

Pei Chuan’s body tensed—he didn’t look back.

Teacher Yu said: “Bei Yao, there are three empty seats left. You can choose any to sit in.”

Bei Yao walked toward Pei Chuan.

She carried the fresh scent of post-rain sunshine with her as she sat down beside him.

“Get out,” Pei Chuan said. It was the first time he had spoken to her—his voice cold, ordering her away.

He thought: I don’t need your pity. Stay as far away from me as possible.

Bei Yao’s almond eyes filled with wronged confusion: “But I’m short. Short kids can’t see from the back.”

Pei Chuan fell silent, turning his head away.