Chapter 391: You Pick the Place

On the morning of May 6th, the alley was unloading cargo.

Beer bottles clinked into plastic crates one by one, the sound rattling through the whole alley. She cracked the window open a sliver; the noise flooded in, so she pushed it shut again.

She arrived at the firm at eight-fifty. He Xiufen was sweeping the steps, pushing dust to one side with the broom. She stopped at the third step, picked up a flattened cigarette pack, and tossed it into her bag.

"Not heading out today?" He Xiufen asked.

"No. Waiting for a phone call."

"A phone can wait upstairs too." He Xiufen leaned the broom against the wall. "I've boiled water for you. The kettle's by the stove."

She went upstairs, set her bag on the chair, and flipped the desk calendar first. The May 6th square had one note written before the holiday: Filing fee. She picked up a pencil and added half a parenthesis after it, then left it unfinished and erased it.

A thin layer of dust sat on the window glass. She'd wiped it down last week, but with no one here over the holiday, the wind had blown the alley's dirt back up onto it.

At nine-forty, her phone buzzed on the desk corner. The screen read: Chai Guizhi.

"Lawyer Shen, it's me."

"Auntie Chai."

"The money's paid." The voice on the other end was loud, with people talking in the background and a child shouting. "The kid's father is in Guangdong. He paid with his phone and sent me a picture."

"Good, as long as it's paid."

"I can't read the picture." Chai Guizhi said. "It's covered in words, I can't make them out. My grandson taught me how to press it once. Don't know if it went through."

"Go ahead and press. I'll wait."

Half a minute later, the screen lit up. The image was blurry; a finger covered the bottom-right corner, right over the date line. She zoomed in, examined the payment code, read through the line of numbers, checked it against the amount on the notice once, then checked again.

"Auntie Chai, it went through. I got it."

"Got it?" The other end paused, as if she'd turned to talk to someone beside her, then came back. "Then I can stop worrying. This one thing, I think about it every day, and thinking about it keeps me up at night."

"From today on, wait for the court's notice. The answer, the hearing, step by step."

"I don't understand any of that. You say it's paid, so I won't ask." She added, "Those circles on the rice jar are still taped up. I look at them every day. That May 24th circle, I'll fill it in with a pen when the time comes."

"Tell me when you've filled it in."

"I will." The sound of bowls clinking came through. "Xiaoyu's been eating fine these past two days. Just won't talk. Squats at the door watching other kids ride their bikes."

"He's carrying something inside."

"Good that he remembers. Remembering means he knows who spoke up for him."

After hanging up, she saved the image to her phone, then connected to the printer and printed a copy. The page came out faint; the payment code became a small gray smudge. She wrote in the corner: May 6th, Chai Guizhi forwarded payment screenshot, filing fee paid.

She slipped the page into Ge Xiaoyu's file folder, right behind the Notice of Litigation Fee Payment. The two matched, one before the other. She ran her finger over the line about "prepayment within seven days" on the notice.

[Thud. Paid within seven days. This one will not be withdrawn.]

She looked at that line, then pressed the folder flat against the desk.

At ten o'clock, she pulled open the bottom drawer of the metal cabinet.

The paper bag leaned against the cabinet corner, its mouth folded over twice. On the front were two lines of handwriting, one hers, one Lu Jibai's: Attached are printed scan copies and a disc. The original report and original seal are not included.

She didn't open the sleeve. The seal strip on it was pressed down firmly. Opening it once meant resealing it, and she had no intention of touching it today.

She carried the bag to the copier and laid the contents out one by one: printed copies of five scanned pages, the top page being the first page of the re-test report, with the sample field reading "Baixi Village well water, second sample"; below that, the Judicial Appraisal Opinion; then a notarial certificate stamped with the Chengnan Notary Office's seal.

The copier fed page by page, the lamp gliding across the glass, its sound muffled inside the casing. The pages came out warm, edges curling. The red seal printed as a grayish smear; the copier didn't register red. She turned back to compare against the original — the round stamp on it was just a blob of red, the signature blurred into it. Anyone would see it as a blob.

Five pages copied. She held the originals against the printouts one by one. The small print on the first page was there too: This report consists of six pages, including one attachment. The last line on page five was also there: Attachment: sample handover form, photocopy.

Page six was missing. Blank on the printed sheet, blank on the original — this page was empty everywhere. The copier couldn't reproduce something that didn't exist.

Lu Jibai looked up from behind his desk.

"I just replaced the paper tray," he said.

"I can see that."

"Tell me if it jams."

"It's not jammed."

He lowered his head and his pencil moved across the paper again. She pressed the button for the next item, one after another, then straightened the stack and tapped it twice against the desk edge.

A new kraft paper envelope. In the lower corner of the front, she wrote: For petition. May 6th.

She wrote small, folded the envelope's mouth over once, and tucked it into her bag. The cabinet at the firm would stay untouched today. This envelope would go home with her tonight.

[Thud. What was copied was paper. The original is still in someone else's cabinet.]

She pulled the notebook from her bag, glanced at the April 26th page, and put it back.

At noon, the exhaust fan downstairs hummed to life.

She went down and sat at the table by the door. He Xiufen brought over a bowl of noodles; the soup sloshed against the rim, scallions floating to the top.

"That pipe at No. 3 Pond hasn't been touched yet." He Xiufen said.

"Eighteen days left."

"Eighteen days." He Xiufen set a spoon beside the bowl. "What if they drag it out to the very last day?"

"As long as they do it. The judgment is there, the acceptance inspection is there. I go by the dates."

"The person who checks signs." He Xiufen said. "That box you added last time — good move. Who replants how much, who signs."

She took a bite. The noodles were a bit soft, the broth thick.

"You've been quiet these past couple days," He Xiufen said suddenly.

"Busy."

"Busy means eat." He Xiufen turned to leave, then looked back after two steps. "I'm not going out this afternoon. There's soup in the pot."

A little past one, Cai Qingru called. Tomorrow at nine-thirty, at the Intermediate Court entrance. The two from the provincial capital would arrive early in the morning; they'd bring the seals themselves and sign the line on the spot.

"Should I go pick them up?"

"No need. They know the way." Cai Qingru said. "I'll leave the center at seven-fifty, swing by your building, eight-twenty."

"Then I'll wait downstairs."

"Downstairs, not in the wind."

At two-thirty, Li Huilan hung her cloth bag on the back of her chair. "I'm going to the Enforcement Bureau to ask about Old Kan's case. Back by five-thirty."

"If you get an answer, tell me. If not, come back."

"If I don't get one, I'll plant myself in the chair in front of his desk." Li Huilan picked up her file. "Sit there long enough, he'll have to give me something."

She left. Now only two people remained upstairs, one desk apart. The unloading noise outside had stopped; a tricycle rolled slowly through the alley, its sheet-metal bed clattering in loose pieces.

A few minutes before three, she pressed the cap onto her pen.

She opened the notebook to the April 26th page. The header held the date and time, and below it the line: Han Chongli called, requesting a meeting, the date was mine to set. The second half was blank — blank until today.

The number was written at the bottom. She checked it, dialed, then checked it again, tucked the notebook under her arm, and walked to the top of the stairs.

The stairwell turned at a landing. She stood one step down from it, her back to the office. The phone pressed to her ear, the line ringing. On the fourth ring, the other end picked up.

"Hello."

"Lawyer Han, this is Shen Zhixia."

The other end went quiet for half a beat, then answered evenly: "Lawyer Shen."

"May 13th, three in the afternoon."

"Where?"

She pressed the notebook tighter. "You choose."

The line went empty for a stretch — long enough for her to hear herself swallow.

"Hengzheng, first floor," he said. "Your father's name is on that wall."

"Fine."

"Fine." He said it again, his word overlapping hers.

She lowered the phone and glanced at the screen. The call time ticked up one second, then another, then cut off — he'd hung up first.

The little window at the stair landing was open halfway. The alley was empty in the early afternoon; only the cat by the neighbor's door rolled over at the base of the wall. She stood there for a while, took the notebook from under her arm, and turned back to that page.

At ten past three, she returned to her desk.

The pen tip landed after "the date was mine to set" and continued: May 13th, 15:00, Hengzheng, first floor.

When she finished, she read the line from beginning to end. Her pen hovered at the words "Hengzheng, first floor," then stopped — she added nothing more. A small ink dot bled open on the page.

[Thud. What was set was a date. Nothing else was set.]

She closed the notebook and tucked it beneath the printed index.

Lu Jibai nudged a stack of forms half an inch across his desk toward her.

"Qinghe's form — I filled in the date," he said. "Take a look, see if anything needs changing."

She pulled it over. In the "Recipient" field at the top, he'd filled in tomorrow's date, the writing pressed light.

"The date's right," she said. "The forty-six thousand for the loss of service function — you left the arrival date blank."

"Blank on purpose. The money hasn't arrived. Writing it down would be false."

"Keep it blank."

He took the form back and clipped it into a folder.

At five-twenty, the light slanted through the window, landing between the two desks. The exhaust fan downstairs still hadn't started; water was heating on the stove, a faint sound.

She took the envelope from her bag, looked at it once, and put it back, the fold of its mouth facing her. Tonight this envelope went home with her; at home, the five pages of the petition sat under the household register, next to the stack of notes, Volume Eight still half a hand's width away.

At five-thirty, Lu Jibai put his folder into his bag and stood up.

"I'm heading down."

"Mhm."

He walked to the stairs, paused, but didn't turn.

"Tomorrow, the Qinghe document — I'll be at the Intermediate Court entrance at nine."

She set her pen down. "I'm going with Director Cai. You don't need to come."

"Okay."

He went downstairs. His footsteps descended step by step, lightened at the landing, then faded out of hearing.

She flipped the desk calendar to the 13th. She wrote in pencil: 15:00.

She set the pencil flat and did not flip further ahead.

The old wooden chair by the window sat empty, its armrests worn glossy. Below, the exhaust fan started up — one long note, then a steady hum. He Xiufen's voice called from the kitchen, "Dinner's ready," and the fan swallowed most of it.