Chapter 330: Where Would They Go

Nine-twenty on the morning of January 16th. The water on the noodle shop stove had been boiling for a while, steam pushing up through the gaps in the floorboards, fogging the second-floor window glass with a white film. Lu Jibai spread Qinghe's stack of papers across the desk, laying them out one by one, weighting each end with old iron clips.

Shen Zhixia was wiping the whiteboard. Under the "Personal" column, only the word "waiting" remained. She'd wiped half of it away when the phone rang.

"Lawyer Shen, it's He Lan."

She set the eraser on the windowsill, sat down at the desk, and flipped open her notebook. "Yes, go ahead."

"The December payment came on the fourteenth. This month's came on the afternoon of the fifteenth." He Lan paused on the other end. "Fifteen hundred each time."

"Has he come by?"

"No. Hasn't made a single phone call either."

"Has Xiaotian asked?"

"Once. I told her the money was in. She said 'oh,' and went to do her homework."

Shen Zhixia wrote in her notebook: December 14; January 15; 1,500; 1,500.

"Should I go register this somewhere?" He Lan asked.

"No. Just keep a notebook of your own. One line per day: which bank, what date, how much. The day he stops paying, that piece of paper is the first piece of evidence."

"I've been keeping track. For half a month now." A bowl clinked faintly on her end, the sound far away. "And that two-thousand-yuan agency fee—I've saved up half. When should I bring it to you?"

"Don't bring it yet."

"It doesn't sit right with me, keeping it here."

"It's safer with you than with me." Shen Zhixia turned the pen around and tapped the cap against the paper. "If you give it to me now, it's like asking me to spend the money for you in advance. Once all the accounts in this case are settled, I'll write you a receipt. Every cent on paper."

"Then I'll keep saving."

"One more thing." Shen Zhixia looked up at the small writing in the upper-right corner of the whiteboard. "That protection order runs until April twenty-second. You don't need to do anything before it expires. When the time comes, I'll ask you one question."

"Ask me what?"

"Whether you want it extended."

Silence on the other end for a few seconds. "I'll think about it when the time comes."

"Fine. Think about it then."

[Thud. He Lan case: two child support payments received on time. Entry fully recorded.]

[Thud. He pays monthly. What he's afraid of is still that piece of paper.]

"He Lan's case can be closed out." Lu Jibai pressed the cap onto his pen without looking up.

"The agency fee is still blank."

"Blank is also a way of writing it." He moved Qinghe's stack of papers aside. "The ledger still says 'deferred,' with a line underneath explaining why. The day she pays, add a line. Done."

"She said she's saved half."

"Then wait for the other half."

Shen Zhixia went back to the whiteboard, wiped the word "waiting" clean, and wrote three small lines beneath it: Blood draw on the 18th; diagnosis certificate; his father signs.

"The eighteenth," Lu Jibai said.

"The eighteenth. Nine o'clock."

"She pays for the blood test herself."

"She pays herself. Keeps the receipt, tucks it in her cloth bag."

"The numbers from both draws have to be there for the doctor to write the diagnosis." He pushed his chair back. "Missing one means the stack for the court is one page short."

Eight-thirty on the morning of January 18th. Two figures were already standing on the hospital steps.

The old woman shielded the child on the side away from the wind, facing the draft herself. The child wore a knit cap pulled down to his eyebrows, both hands tucked into his sleeves.

"I said eight-forty." Shen Zhixia walked over.

"I wanted to get out early. The bus gets too crowded later." The old woman reached over and pushed the child's cap up a finger's width. "Let's go in."

They paid first. The window called out the amount, and the old woman fished the handkerchief from her cloth bag, unfolded it layer by layer, counted the money out and pushed it forward. The change and the receipt went together into the inner pocket of the bag. This time, the receipt never touched Shen Zhixia's hands.

The blood-draw station was at the east end. A soft cord stretched across the doorway, and behind it stood a row of plastic chairs. The number ticket machine was by the door. The old woman pressed it herself; the slip of paper slid out from below, and she held it in her palm, unfolding it every so often to check.

"What number does it say?"

"Thirty-seven."

"Thirty-seven." She repeated it after Shen Zhixia and balled the slip back into her palm.

When the number was called, the nurse shouted down the hallway. The old woman answered, "Here," and gave the child a push toward the door.

"One family member inside."

The old woman went in. The door didn't close all the way; a gap remained. Through it Shen Zhixia could see the chair inside, the nurse's white sleeve, the child's two shoes dangling in the air, toes braced against the chair leg's crossbar.

At the other end of the corridor, a small child was crying, the sound drawing out in waves, cutting off and catching again.

When the needle went in, the crying was still going on at the other end. On this end, silence.

After a while, the child came out first. His left arm was bent, his right hand pressing the cotton ball hard against the inside of his elbow. He walked up to Shen Zhixia and lifted his arm to show her, without saying a word.

"Does it hurt?"

He shook his head, then gave a single nod.

"Keep pressing." Shen Zhixia straightened the cotton on the back of his hand. "Five minutes. Don't let up. If you do, it'll bruise a whole patch."

At the door, the nurse was giving the old woman instructions: results tomorrow after 3 p.m., third floor, Pediatric Health.

"Tomorrow, three in the afternoon." The old woman repeated it carefully.

"The doctor mentioned three days," Shen Zhixia said.

"If the test was run, results come out the next day." The nurse tore off the slip for the next visit and handed it to her. "Come after three. Any earlier, and the results haven't made it over there yet."

Two-fifty on the afternoon of the nineteenth, the third-floor Pediatric Health hallway. Same exam room, same female doctor in the dark gray sweater, white coat hanging open.

She set the numbers from the two sheets side by side, studied them, then rotated the screen halfway around.

"Two hundred six."

The old woman's hands rested on the edge of the desk. "Last time it was two hundred twelve."

"Down six points." The doctor said, "By the same standard, it's still above two hundred. The grading depends on which bracket the number falls into—not how many points it dropped."

"Did you bring the booklet?" She held out her hand. The old woman pulled the medical record booklet from her cloth bag, opened it, and pushed it over. The doctor wrote a line inside, then pushed it back.

The printer rattled for a moment and spat out two pages. The first was the test report. On the second, she signed her name, took a stamp from the drawer, pressed down—a block of red appeared at the bottom of the page.

She slid both pages across.

"Diagnosis certificate." Shen Zhixia held the paper by its edges and read aloud for the old woman's benefit. "Name: Ge Xiaoyu. Diagnosis section: childhood lead poisoning, mild." She moved down a line. "Recommendations, three lines. First: remove from contaminated environment. Second: nutritional intervention. Third: re-check in three months."

[Thud. Both draws above two hundred. This line holds up in court.]

"Remove," the old woman said. "Where would they go?"

The doctor set her pen down. In the neighboring exam room, someone laughed. A cart rolled past in the hallway, wheels rumbling in waves.

"What I can issue here is a recommendation," the doctor said. "These three lines follow the standard. Where they go isn't on this piece of paper."

"There's a ditch that runs down from the hills past our place," the old woman said. "The kid walks right along it to school every day. The school's in the village."

The doctor put her hands back on the keyboard and didn't answer.

"Three months from now, we'll draw blood again. Still venous, still two draws. I've noted it in the booklet." She said, "Today's two reports—I'm keeping the records here."

"This stamp—which one is it of the hospital's?" Shen Zhixia asked.

"The Diagnosis Certificate Special Seal."

"And the signature—that's yours, in person?"

"Signed by me."

"Can you print another copy of this page? We'd like to keep a backup."

"A reprint requires a new registration." The doctor nudged the page toward the old woman. "One original is enough."

Shen Zhixia took out her phone, smoothed the paper flat at the corner of the desk, and photographed it—seal and signature together. When she was done, she turned the screen toward the old woman.

The old woman asked to hold the page. She cradled it in both hands and slid her fingers down its surface, pausing at the lower-right corner.

"This patch of red—same as the one on that paper you people have?"

"Same. It's all the hospital's seal."

"Then I'll recognize it." She held the page flat, not folding it. "This one—keep it with you too?"

"Together." Shen Zhixia said, "When we get back, I'll put it in the same bag and add a line to the cover: what day, who provided it, which doctor issued it. When it's done, I'll read it to you."

"I won't be there to hear it."

"I'll call and read it to you. Stay home tonight and wait for my call."

"Fine." The old woman handed the paper over, then pulled it back halfway. "Let me look one more time."

She unfolded the page and let her eyes travel across the words, not a single one spoken aloud, before finally letting go.

Five o'clock, outside the hospital.

Darkness had settled in. Two stalls sat at the foot of the steps—one selling roasted sweet potatoes, one selling socks, the iron plate on the stove filmed with pale ash. The streetlights were just coming on, a thin fog gathering beneath the lamps.

The old woman bought a roasted sweet potato for the child and broke it in half, handing him the bigger piece. He cupped it in both hands, the steam fogging his face.

"Yesterday afternoon, Xiao Wu came by again," the old woman said.

"Did he come into the yard?"

"No. Stood outside the threshold with his hands in his pockets."

"What did he ask?"

"He asked what the kid was seeing a doctor in the city about. Asked twice."

"What did you tell him?"

"I said: seeing a doctor. Then he asked again—what illness." The old woman pressed a hand against her padded jacket. "I said: it's written on the paper. I can't tell you."

"Did you show him the paper?"

"No. He didn't come in either."

"What did he say when he left?"

"He said it's almost New Year. Said I should think it over again."

Shen Zhixia stood on the steps and pulled her scarf up.

"From now on, if he asks anything, you give one answer." She said, "The child is seeing a doctor. Anything else, you don't understand."

"The child is seeing a doctor. Anything else, I don't understand." The old woman repeated it slowly.

"If he asks which hospital, say: a hospital in the city. If he asks which doctor, say: don't remember the name. If he asks whether the child is better, say: still being seen. If he asks when the next visit is, say: not decided."

"Not decided."

"Don't mention us. Don't mention the firm. Don't mention the paper."

"I won't."

"He's not here to ask about an illness." Shen Zhixia said, "What he's listening for is one slip from you. If you give the same answer three times, he'll have nothing left to ask."

The old woman nodded and peeled a strip of skin off her half of the sweet potato, then stopped with it in her hand.

"My daughter's married in town," she said. "Lives on the street behind the town middle school. Her husband runs a shop there. The place has heating."

Shen Zhixia waited for her to continue.

"Winter break started. I was thinking of sending Xiaoyu to stay with her for a few days." The old woman lifted the child's cap just enough to reveal his eyes. "The town drinks tap water. Not ditch water."

The child wiped sweet potato residue from his fingers and looked up at his grandmother.

"Stay till school starts," the old woman said. "When school starts, he has to come back. The school's in the village."

Shen Zhixia couldn't find a reply.

She'd wanted to say half a month wouldn't make a difference. The doctor hadn't written how long the removal needed to last, and she honestly didn't know whether half a month mattered. Wind cut up from the base of the steps, lifting a corner of the white ash on the stove.

She opened her notebook, and under the Qingshi Village page she wrote: In town, daughter's place, winter break; back when school starts, school's in the village. She closed the book with the pen tucked inside.

"Useful or not, at least he's away." The old woman said, "You're a lawyer. If you said it wouldn't help, that would be an answer."

"I can't say." Shen Zhixia said, "This one I don't understand. The doctor didn't write it down either."

The streetlights came on. Three shadows fell from the steps, stretching over that half-strip of sweet potato skin. The child held out the last small piece in his hand, and the old woman took it, blew on it, and put it in her mouth. Not thrown away.