Chapter 401: Thirty Days

The van pulled up beneath the locust tree at the mouth of the alley, six minutes before the agreed seven o'clock. Cai Qingru rolled the window down halfway and rested her arm on the sill, watching the noodle shop's entrance. In the back stood two rolls of measuring tape, and a stack of forms weighed down by a plastic folder, their corners lifting and settling in the wind.

When she came downstairs, He Xiufen was flinging a basin of water onto the front steps, chasing it with a broom; the water ran to the base of the locust tree and slowly seeped into the cracks between the bricks.

"Seven." Cai Qingru said. "Two columns on the form. I sign the Qinghe column. Who signs the other?"

"The Zhengping Firm column. He signs." She tilted her chin toward the noodle shop entrance.

Lu Jibai came out carrying a kraft paper document envelope, gray jacket, old shoes, and stopped by the van. "Attorney Shen."

"Three things on the form." she said. "The ditch, the pipe, the notice. I cut the notice page out and pasted it into the file. One sheet. Don't let it get wet."

"It's with me."

"Those two steel plates at the blockage—you shot them from the side last time." she said. "This time shoot them straight on, and frame the weld seams in. The people reading the form don't look at your eyes."

"Got it." He pulled the form from the envelope, flipped to the back, and wrote in the item that needed to be added.

He Xiufen turned back into the shop and came out with a thin plastic bag, pushed it through the window. "Two eggs, hard-boiled. A whole morning up the mountain—don't talk to people on an empty stomach."

Cai Qingru took it and hung the bag on the gearshift. "Director He, we're in a hurry."

Cai Qingru pulled the passenger door open, hand resting on the frame. "Attorney Shen isn't coming?"

"Not going up today." she said. "There's still paper at the firm that has to be cross-checked today."

"Something at the firm tomorrow morning?"

"My business."

He Xiufen leaned the broom against the wall and wiped her hands on her apron. "Nothing's going on at the firm. Go do what you need to do."

"I won't be in tomorrow morning." she said to Lu Jibai.

"Mm." He acknowledged, setting the envelope by his feet. "I'll bring the form back this afternoon. One copy goes in the firm's files."

"File it."

"That replanting section—Cai Qingru says it depends on the weather." he added. "After last time's rain, the soil's still wet. Planting now, the roots might rot."

"Then wait." she said. "Leave the 'Replanting Quantity Confirmer' column blank on the form."

"What about the one-hundred-eighty-day item?" Cai Qingru asked from inside the van.

"As of today, only the three items under the thirty-day period have come due." she said. "The other dates are still far off. Don't add anything to them yet."

The doors closed with two thuds. The van backed out of the alley; a sanitation tricycle passed by, and Cai Qingru tapped the horn once, leaned out and waved. "We'll be back from the village around one this afternoon."

The van turned onto the main road, its taillights flaring once at the corner before vanishing. She stayed under the locust tree, opening her notebook. On the Qingshi Village page, next to May 24th, there was a circle drawn—back in April, pencil, faint. She closed the notebook and went inside.

In the morning she went through the petition page by page, checking pagination front to back once more. The line break between pages four and five lined up; the signature on the last page was dated May 19th, the strokes lighter than the one from May 9th. She turned to the final page, looked at it for two seconds, then slid it under the folder without flipping through it again.

At 16:30, the exhaust fan downstairs was still running, and footsteps that had tracked in dirt came up the stairs. Lu Jibai set the kraft envelope on the corner of her desk and drew out the supervision form, then several photographs.

"Three items." he said.

Li Huilan came out from the inner office, pen in hand, and stood by the desk.

"Rain-sewage separation, finished on the 22nd. The last stretch of pipe connects at the turn east of the village. I scratched the cement at the joint twice with a key—wouldn't budge." He slid a photo forward, the date and time written in ballpoint along the edge. "The two steel plates at the blockage: the painted marking on the weld seam is still there, untouched. The water level in the pond below is lower than last time, and there's no fresh seepage on the pond wall."

"The apology, May 20th, page two of the Jiangzhou Daily." A second photo came forward. "The village store brought in twenty copies and sold all but three. Auntie Chai bought two—one pressed under the rice jar, one put away; she couldn't bear to fold it."

"She was standing by the ditch?"

"Stood there until past noon." he said. "Went back once to make Xiaoyu a meal, came out and stood again after eating. I asked if she needed anything, and she only asked one thing: is it done yet. I said the three thirty-day items come due today, but there are still unsigned words under the one-hundred-eighty-day period. She said then she'll keep coming."

"And Xiaoyu?"

"Squatting by the ditch, watching the water." He turned over the third photo. "Holding a bottle cap, he'd drop it in and watch it float downstream. When it disappeared around the bend, he'd drop another."

"There's water in the ditch now?"

"There is. It used to be gray. Today it runs clear." he said. "Two more people sat at the village entrance than last time, on that row of stools outside the store. No one spoke. Just watched."

"Watched what?"

"Watched us measure." he said. "Cai Qingru wrote the date and time on every photo—how many people came, who signed—all of it's on the back of the form."

She took the supervision form and went down it column by column: the Qinghe column bore Cai Qingru's name, with the organization written on the line below her name; the Zhengping Firm column was blank. She handed over the pen. He signed and pushed the form back to her.

She smoothed the form flat on the desk and pressed down all four corners. "Which slot did you put the copy in?"

"With the seal usage register."

"Don't let it get mixed up with other people's."

"It won't."

"Why is the replanting quantity column blank?"

"Left blank. Whoever counts on acceptance day signs." he said. "It wasn't time for that today."

She filed the form into the Qingshi Village volume, turned to the page in her notebook, took up the pen, and traced over the pencil circle. The original pencil line showed at the edges; the ink pressed into the middle, and the circle went dark.

[Thud. Thirty days, as of today. All three items. On paper.]

Li Huilan finished writing the last line in her notebook and looked up. "No visit scheduled to the detention center today. I'll go tomorrow. Her son mentioned last time he wanted to send summer clothes—I need to ask whether they'll accept them."

"Ask." she said.

Li Huilan gathered her papers and pen; at the top of the stairs she glanced back. "That circle on the form—don't ink it too heavy. There'll be more to add later."

"Mm." she said.

"Also," Li Huilan said, "whatever can't be cross-checked today can wait until tomorrow. The paper isn't going anywhere."

She didn't look up; her pen point hung over the page. "It gets finished today."

Lu Jibai put the photos back into the envelope one by one and clicked his pen shut. "If it doesn't get finished today, tomorrow still works."

"It gets finished today." she repeated.

He said nothing, picked up the envelope, and went downstairs. The footsteps paused halfway down, hung on the steps for a moment, then continued.

At home, 22:00. A page lay on the table, a vertical line drawn down the middle, "Original" on the left, "Copy" on the right, one item per line. She took the things from the paper bag one by one and placed them on the right side, one item to a line.

The petition, five pages: the signed copy, plus two extra. She turned to the last page and laid it signature-down against the table.

The household register, opened to the first page, with a square seal stamped askew over her father's name, red ink pressing across half the strokes, as if someone had pressed a hand down on it. On the copy, that spot was a black smudge; you couldn't tell what it was from the edges. The original had to go along—they had to see that seal with their own eyes.

Certificate of Release from Prison: one sheet. Death Certificate: one sheet. The edges had gone stiff; they crackled at a touch. She checked the dates in that column against the copied list once each before putting them away.

The judgment, the trial transcript, the defense counsel's opinion—a full set, every page stamped "Verified Against Original," pulled from the Chengnan District Court the year before last; the paper was softer than the rest. A one-page file index, a one-page archive inspection form—the page-number line for the attachment left blank, with "missing" written in pencil.

The seventh item was a transparent bag: the judicial appraisal opinion, the notarial certificate, two discs, and five printed pages. She thumbed through the five prints in order, squared the edges, then pressed the clip on the bag—heard the click—and pressed again to make sure it had shut.

The line beneath the seventh item—the list had nothing there. The two pages from March in Volume Seven, the name on the sample submission form: she added not a single word.

[Thud. No one retained you for this one.]

The inner-room door opened. Zhi'an came out with a cup for water and stood by the table, looking at the row of papers.

"Jie, you're taking the bag tomorrow?"

"Taking it."

"I'll make the congee." He took a sip of water. "I've got the rice soaking; it'll be ready before seven. The pickled vegetables are in that fridge shelf."

"Alarm at seven. Out the door at eight twenty."

"Got it." He set the cup down and reached toward the transparent bag, his fingers stopping just short of the opening. "This one's going tomorrow too?"

"Yes."

"Then I won't touch it." He paused before going back to his room. "There's leftover food in the pot. When you get back, heat it up yourself. Don't just eat noodles again."

She put the items back into the paper bag one by one, originals at the bottom, the checklist clipped to the top of the petition, the bag folded over twice. On the second fold she stopped and read the four lines written on the face: Shen Qian, Petition, Shen Zhixia, Filed with Jiangzhou Intermediate Court. The ink was from May 19th; the last line pressed into the one before it, the paper slightly swollen.

At 22:20 she turned the checklist over and, pen in hand, began writing out the questions she might be asked tomorrow, one line at a time.

What are you filing.

Whose case.

Where is he.

How many years.

When was the sentence completed.

Why file it here.

Those she could answer. At the seventh, she hesitated, then wrote it anyway: Where is the original.

The pen stopped on the paper. In the transparent bag at the corner of the desk, the five printed pages lay in order, the notarial certificate on top, the discs flashing a line of silver at the bag's edge. She remembered what Ning Ping had said that day, standing on the steps outside the notary office: whatever you file, they'll look first at where it came from. Where it came from—that was on the paper: what date, what time, which disc, whose hand. But where the original was—she couldn't write that down.

She left that line blank, didn't cross it out. She turned the phone face-down on the checklist and set the alarm for seven. Before switching off the light, she counted the seven items on the table, one by one—nothing more, nothing less—with one empty line waiting beneath the seventh question.