Chapter 326: The Blank Line for Party B

The first thing that came up the stairs was the smell of scallion oil. Underneath it, a dampness—the kind of damp in hallways that never quite dries. Then footsteps: a pair of cloth shoes, each sole scraping the concrete steps, lift by lift; and a smaller pair behind, quick, skipping every other step to keep up.

Shen Zhixia waited at the top of the stairs. The long table had been wiped down twice. Four glasses sat upside down along the inner edge. A kettle rested in the corner, spout facing the door.

Chai Guizhi came up still wearing her apron over her padded jacket, a grease stain worked into the center that no washing would ever take out. One hand gripped a cloth bag, the other a child's wrist—gripped tight. At the doorway she stopped, looked over the landing, and only then stepped inside.

"Lawyer Shen."

"That's me. Take it slow—this step's high."

She didn't sit once she was in. She set the cloth bag on the edge of the table, mouth open, showing a plastic bag inside, half a roll of toilet paper, and a phone wrapped in blue cloth. She pulled the child behind her, just slightly.

"Say hello."

The child didn't. He was eight, standing a little above his grandmother's waist, in a blue padded jacket with the cuffs rolled twice. One hand in his pocket, he didn't look at anyone—he looked at the photocopier against the wall.

"It made a sound a minute ago," he said.

"It jammed," Shen Zhixia said. "I pulled the paper out. If you want to hear it, I can make it go again."

He didn't say yes or no.

Lu Jibai stood from his end of the long table, pulled out the chair nearest the door, and stepped back half a pace. Chai Guizhi looked at the chair, at him, then back.

"This is Lawyer Lu from our firm, and this is Lawyer Li." Shen Zhixia said. "Please, sit."

"All lawyers." She sat down, only on the front half of the chair, back not touching the rest.

Li Huilan set a cup of water down by her right hand. "Not too hot. You can drink it."

Chai Guizhi reached out with her right hand and steadied the cup, left hand still pressing on the cloth bag. Her right ear tilted toward the table; the light from the window fell on the other side of her face. Shen Zhixia moved her own chair over and sat at the old woman's right.

"You brought the paper?"

The old woman pulled the Agreement out of the cloth bag. One sheet, folded once, dust in the crease, the edges gone soft.

"I can't read," she said. "You read it. Read slow."

"Before I read, one thing: I'm reading what's written on this paper. I won't add anything that isn't written. If there's a sentence you don't catch, say so, and I'll read it again."

The paper was smoothed flat. Half a page of writing on the front—small characters, tight lines. The back was the signature section: on the left, "Party A" in print, a red seal stamped over the company name, and in the "Person Handling" column, "Wu Zhiqiang" written in pen; on the right, only "Party B" printed, with a horizontal line beneath it and a box under that, a few even smaller characters inside the box. The date at the bottom was handwritten: January 5th.

"Read."

"Item One: Party A shall pay Party B a one-time nutritional supplement of 3,000 yuan in cash, payable in full on the day of signature."

She stopped, waited a moment. "What does that sentence mean?"

The old woman looked at the paper for half a second before remembering she couldn't read it. "Three thousand yuan. Sign and the money's yours."

"To you. Cash. The day you sign."

"Three thousand."

"Correct."

"Item Two: The above payment by Party A is a one-time nutritional supplement. It does not constitute compensation, nor does it constitute any admission of liability by Party A."

"What does that one mean?"

"What's written is 'nutritional supplement.' Money for nutrition."

"Not compensation?"

"The word 'compensation' doesn't appear anywhere on this paper."

She lifted her hand off her knee and let it fall back. "My grandson had blood drawn twice, and they're giving me money for nutrition."

Shen Zhixia noted the sentence in her book but didn't respond.

"I'll read Item Three twice."

"Party B voluntarily accepts Party A's one-time nutritional supplement of 3,000 yuan. From this point forward, Party B shall not assert any rights against Party A by any means, shall not accept media interviews, and shall not participate in any litigation."

When she finished, she read it again from the top, and when she reached "shall not participate in any litigation," she read that sentence alone one more time.

The old woman didn't move. Her right hand rested on the cup; her fingerprints lingered on the glass.

"What does that sentence mean?"

"It means: after you sign, you can't go back to them about this. You can't tell outsiders. And you can't go to court."

"So if I sign, I can't sue."

"That's what this paper says."

"That's the sentence I called to ask about."

"I know," Shen Zhixia said. "Whether this clause holds in the end—I'm not ruling on that here. I won't change a single word of what's written, and I can't tell you a court will definitely enforce it or definitely not. What I can do is read it clear. The rest is your call."

The old woman nodded, slowly.

"Item Four: This agreement takes effect on the date both parties sign. It is made in duplicate, one copy for each party. Item Five: Matters not covered in this agreement shall be resolved through negotiation between both parties."

"What do those two mean?"

"Starting from the day it's signed, each side keeps one copy. If anything else comes up, they talk about it."

"Is there anything else coming up?"

"It doesn't say on this paper."

Shen Zhixia placed a pen on the table, pointed toward herself, not pushed across.

"If there's a clause you don't want to count, I'll strike it for you," she said. "Once struck, that clause is void."

"What happens if I strike it?"

"If you strike it, that clause doesn't count. Then this paper can't be signed. And if it can't be signed, the three thousand won't come."

The old woman took her hand off the cup and wiped it on her apron.

"I don't want the three thousand."

"Then I'll write down what you tell me, and read it back. If I get a word wrong, say so." She turned to a fresh page, pen pressed to paper. "I'll ask about that day once, from the beginning."

"Ask."

"When was the last time the child had blood drawn?"

"December twenty-first. Almost winter solstice. The car pulled up to my door before I'd even lit the stove."

"What kind of car?"

"Silver-gray. Like a little van. Writing on the side—I couldn't read it." She said, "The driver was a man in his thirties. Folks in the village call him Xiao Wu. He said go to the city, run one more check, and once it's done it's over."

"Did he say who sent him?"

"He said the factory."

Shen Zhixia glanced at the "Person Handling" column on the back of the paper: Wu Zhiqiang.

"How was the child in the car?"

"He sat there. Carsick. First time riding that far." She patted her apron pocket; there was a rolled-up plastic bag inside. "I got carsick too. He gave us a bread roll and a bottle of water."

"When you got to the hospital?"

"They drew from the arm. He didn't cry." The old woman looked back at her grandson. "He didn't cry that day."

The child turned his face away, back to the photocopier.

"The test report?"

"The person who drew the blood said it'd be ready in three days. I said I'd wait three days and come back. Xiao Wu said no need—he'd take the report for reimbursement." Her hand pressed against the table edge. "I asked him, what's my grandson's number? He said not bad. Take some medicine and it'll be fine."

"Did the report ever reach your hands?"

"No."

"And after that?"

"A few days ago, he came by my place twice. First time he stood at the door, said once you decide, sign, and the money comes the same day. Second time he put this paper on the table and said just sign your name." She raised her hand, pointing in the air at the box. "He pointed right at that spot. Said sign here."

Shen Zhixia wrote it down, line by line. When she got to the bread, she read back.

"He said in the car he gave you one bread roll and one bottle of water—"

"Two." The old woman held up two fingers. "He gave two. The child ate one. The other came back in his pocket."

She crossed out the "one" and wrote "two" beside it. When she finished, she read the whole page aloud. At "he pointed at this spot and said sign here," she paused and looked up at the old woman.

"I didn't add a word to that sentence."

"You didn't."

"I'll write down your grandson's name."

"Ge Xiaoyu."

"Which characters?"

"I don't know which characters," she said. "Once he's in school, the teacher will write it. I only know how to say it."

"Then I'll record it the way you say it. Later I'll have his teacher write it for me." Shen Zhixia wrote the name and read it aloud. "And your name?"

The old woman pressed both hands against her apron.

"Chai Guizhi."

"How is it written?"

"On top, a 'this'; below, a 'tree'—the 'gui' from 'osmanthus,' the 'zhi' from 'iris orchid.'" She recited it smoothly. "My mother taught me. I've remembered it my whole life. Just can't write it."

"Chai Guizhi. Ge Xiaoyu." Shen Zhixia read each name aloud once, then the pen point stopped at the corner of the page.

"I'm not signing," the old woman said. "I came to ask who's responsible for this child's number."

[Thud. Qingshi Village, case accepted. Client: Chai Guizhi.]

[Thud. Justice Checklist: one child's blood; a front door all winter; an explanation.]

She held the pen over the paper. That line was only half written. She set the pen down and looked up.

Lu Jibai, at the far end of the long table, turned over the page in his hand, glanced at her, and asked nothing.

"Alright," she said. "I'll take this one. But one thing needs to be clear up front: to sign for the child, it has to be his parents."

Lu Jibai came over from his end of the table with a blank set of power of attorney forms and engagement agreements. He laid them on the table beside the old woman's hand. He didn't offer the pen.

"The child is under eighteen. His parents are his legal guardians," he said. "You look after him every day—food, clothes, doctor visits—you can decide those things. But to sign a retainer on his behalf, to go to court, it has to be his parents."

"It's not that we don't trust you," Shen Zhixia said. "It's that this step can't be substituted."

Chai Guizhi looked at the two blank forms for a long moment.

"His father's in Guangdong."

"Is there a phone number?"

"Yes."

"Give it to me and I'll dial."

The old woman recited it slowly, digit by digit, then recited it again. Shen Zhixia wrote the eleven digits down and read them back one by one; the old woman counted along and said correct. The number was dialed. Video call.

It rang seven or eight times before the other side picked up: a concrete pad outside a dormitory, bunk beds behind, a clothesline strung across with two work uniforms hanging. A man in his early thirties, short hair, squatting, one hand braced on his knee.

"Ma?"

"Changlin." The old woman leaned toward the phone. "Lawyers from the city."

The man straightened up. "What's wrong with the kid?"

"The kid's fine," Shen Zhixia said. "We haven't had him do anything today. He's just sitting here. Let me explain: we're Zhengping Firm, upstairs from the noodle shop. Your mother came up today with a paper the factory gave her. She hasn't signed it."

Someone shouted something on the other end. He brought the phone closer.

"Three things," Lu Jibai said, voice low. "One: for anything regarding the child—going places, submitting papers—you sign. Your mother can't; legally, this step can only be yours. Two: nothing gets signed today, not by you, not by your mother. Not a single sheet. Three: from here on, every step we take, we explain to her first, then to you."

"My ma's alone in the village," the man said.

"I know."

"If I sign, is the factory going to go after her?"

Lu Jibai answered slowly: "I can't promise no one will go looking. What we can do is keep her name out of what we say, and out of any papers we submit to the other side. If anyone shows up at her door, she calls this number, and we write everything down."

"My ma says she can't read."

"She can't read, so we read to her." Shen Zhixia turned the phone a little so the old woman was in frame too. "How we read—this morning, it's already been done once."

"How much does it cost?"

"It doesn't cost you anything right now," she said. "If something does need money later, I say so first, you nod, and only then."

The man lowered his head, thinking, and then wiped a hand over his face.

"I'll come back at Spring Festival and sign," he said. "For now, let my ma take the kid to the doctor. She's alone—I don't dare let her run around by herself."

"Noted." Shen Zhixia wrote a line in her book and read it back.

"Ma," the man called into the phone. "Listen to them."

"I listen to the paper," the old woman said.

A short laugh came from the other end. Only then did the child edge over, showing half his face in front of the camera.

"Dad."

"Hey." The man leaned close. "Does your arm hurt?"

"No." The child pulled his face back as soon as he'd said it.

The call ended. The room went quiet. From downstairs, someone was hammering something—two knocks, a pause, two knocks.

"Nothing gets signed today," Lu Jibai said. He closed the blank power of attorney, walked to the metal cabinet, and put it inside. "It stays here until your son comes back."

The old woman watched him push the cabinet door shut, and only then nodded.

"This afternoon I'll take the child to the hospital," Shen Zhixia said. "That blood draw on the twenty-first—the hospital keeps its own records. With the card, we can get a copy printed."

"I have the card." Chai Guizhi pulled a blue card from the cloth bag and set it on the table. There was a photo of a child on the face. "This one's my grandson's. I can't read, but I know colors."

"That's the one." Shen Zhixia picked up the card, looked it over, and handed it back. "You hold onto it. This afternoon, you put it in the machine yourself."

At eleven thirty, footsteps sounded on the stairs. The tray came up first, two white porcelain bowls, steam rising off the rims.

He Xiufen came in still wearing her apron. She set the bowls on the table, sliding one in front of the child, an egg resting on top, scallions scattered around it.

"Eat the egg first," she said.

The child glanced at his grandmother. The old woman waved a hand toward the bowl, and he pulled the little stool closer to the table.

"How much for this bowl?" the old woman asked.

"Noodles upstairs are free."

"I don't eat other people's noodles for nothing."

"Then come downstairs next time," He Xiufen said. "Downstairs, it costs money."

She straightened and swept her eyes over the table. The Agreement still lay in the middle of the long table, face up, the right column blank—nothing above the horizontal line. She looked at it, didn't reach for it, didn't ask.

"The noodles'll turn to paste if they sit," she said, and went back down with the empty tray.

The footsteps descended, step by step. At the last one, they were gone.