Chapter 455: A Lunch Delivery

The lunch rush was at its peak. Three tables had been pushed together by the door, packed with people waiting for others, waiting for noodles, waiting for orders from the group chat. Someone had set a helmet on a stool to save a seat. The exhaust fan in the kitchen hummed through the whole room. He Xiufen stood at the stove lowering noodles, arm straight, long chopsticks lifting and flicking in the pot. Through the rising steam she called toward the front, "The vegetarian one for the table in back—anyone here?"

She sat at the back table, half a bowl of noodles eaten. Her phone lay face-down at the corner of the table. When it flipped over and vibrated, the film of oil on the tabletop shivered with it.

Unknown number.

She answered. First she heard wind, and the sound of an electric scooter braking.

"Shen, this is Luo Cheng. I run Chengnan routes from the group."

"Brother Luo."

"I delivered a lunch today." He spoke evenly. "The door was open. I've been delivering to this place for about twenty days. Every day the door opened just a crack, food set on the concrete ledge outside, a hand reached out and took the bag in. Today the door was open."

She set down her chopsticks.

"Inside there's an old man, reading glasses on, coughing." Luo Cheng said. "I just stood at the doorway for a second—the group said if you see him don't ask where he's staying. I didn't ask anything else, just one question: where he's from."

"Then."

"I asked it the way the group said. I said, old man, Baixi Village? He said, mhm. Then I said, would you be willing to call Lawyer Shen, I'll give you the number. He said, call."

"You're at his door now."

"I am."

"Brother Luo, put him on. I'm here."

There was a rustle of cloth against the receiver, someone shifting a step over. Then a cough—deep, and after it a pause of several seconds before the breath came back.

"Shen's daughter."

Hoarse, with that mountain-region accent, the ends of sentences sloping downward. She had heard this voice in his room on July 1st. On July 21st someone from the court had gone once; afterward, only one line on the phone: he'd said his piece.

"Uncle Pang. This is Shen Zhixia."

"I know."

"Where are you."

"I'm in the city." He said, "This room gets no sun. In the morning it comes in for a little while, then the building in front blocks it."

"You're coughing badly."

"Old trouble. The city air's dry."

Wood creaked; he shifted how he was sitting.

"I'm not sick." He said. "They told me to stay here. Someone brings meals. My son comes once a week."

"Uncle Pang—"

"Court hearing. I'll go."

The words landed, and she didn't answer right away. The noise from the kitchen was at its loudest just then: the exhaust fan, water boiling in the pot, someone at the door calling out for one vegetarian bowl.

She heard the stove fire behind her turned down half a notch. The rolling boil in the pot died down. The exhaust fan kept going.

"Those are your own words." She said.

"Mine." He evened out his breath before continuing. "If I don't go, that thing—only I ever saw it."

She looked down at the back of her own hand, a vein standing out.

"Uncle Pang, let me ask you something." She said. "Where you're staying—I'll tell the court. All right?"

"Tell them."

"Tell me. I'll match it door by door."

"Past the apartment buildings in front, behind them there's a row of flat houses, one next to the other, counting from the east end, the fourth door." He said. "There's a concrete ledge out front, with a bucket on it. The bucket's mine. I wash my face with it."

A takeout order slip lay pressed on the table. She flipped it over—the back was blank. A pen sat right by her hand. She pulled one out, and the pen point hovered over the paper twice before it came down.

Back row, fourth door.

The old apartment buildings in front, a line of flat houses behind, one pressed against the next. The details Peng Weidong had mentioned on the phone matched.

"When the court people come to your door, you open it."

"I'll open it."

"Whatever they ask you, answer truthfully. What they don't ask, you don't need to answer."

"Mhm." He drew a breath. "The words on that paper—I can't read them all."

"They'll read them to you. You've signed twice before. You can sign."

"I can." He paused. "That lady who went to the village with you."

"Director He."

"She stood just inside the door that day and didn't say a word." He said. "Is she coming again."

"She's coming."

"Her voice is loud."

"Her voice is loud." She repeated it.

"Shen's daughter."

"I'm here."

"The day of the hearing, save me a seat near the front. My hearing's bad."

"I'll remember."

"My legs are no good either, I walk slow."

"I'll remember."

More rustling of clothes on the other end, and Luo Cheng's voice came slightly distant: "Old man, give me the phone."

"Brother Luo."

"Shen."

"Give him the food."

"Done. He's holding it with one hand, the other bracing against the table edge."

"Pull his door shut when you go." She said. "No other questions."

"I won't ask. I just deliver food. I don't ask about people's doors."

The call ended. The screen still showed the call duration, ticking up and up, stopping only at the click. She set the phone on the table, her hand lying flat on the surface for a moment before she pulled it back—and when she pulled it back, her fingers were numb.

He Xiufen came out carrying a bowl of noodles, set it in front of her, and took away the half-finished one.

"Who was it."

"Uncle Pang."

"What did he say."

"He said, the hearing—I'll go."

He Xiufen stood by the table, wiped her hands on her apron twice, didn't ask more. She turned and went back to the kitchen, turning the flame down another notch.

At 12:50, she found Luo Cheng's number and called back.

"Brother Luo, it's Shen Zhixia."

"Shen."

"His meals, keep delivering as usual." She said. "Same as any other day."

"As usual."

"Don't do anything else. Don't tell the group. Don't tell anyone where you've been delivering."

"A deliveryman doesn't talk about people's doors." Luo Cheng said. "I won't tell the group. Shen, let me ask one thing, no more than that: what is he to you."

"A witness."

"Witness." He repeated the word.

"Don't say that to anyone either."

"I won't." Wind on his end—he was probably standing at the stairwell entrance. "Shen, the other days when I knocked, all I'd hear from inside was 'just leave it.' Today when I asked him that question, he opened the door."

"'Just leave it.'"

"Mm. Today he said, call."

"Brother Luo, tomorrow you knock like always, do what you always do." She said. "Don't linger at the door. If he says anything to you, don't memorize it, don't pass along messages for anyone."

"Just deliver food."

"Just deliver food."

That sentence she kept in her mind; she didn't write it down.

After the noon matter was handled, she first dialed the Criminal Division's landline. It rang to the ninth, tenth ring—no one picked up. She set the phone back on the table, ate two bites of noodles, set it down again.

At 2:10, she dialed again. This time someone answered.

"Criminal Division."

"Hello, this is Lawyer Shen from Zhengping Firm, looking for the clerk."

"She's out with the judge, won't be back this afternoon."

"When she's back, could you let her know Lawyer Shen from Zhengping called? This number's on."

"Noted."

"Thank you."

The other end hung up first. She sat still, set the phone on the table, screen up.

She opened her contacts, found Ma Jianjun, pressed her finger down—and stopped. She'd told Luo Cheng not to tell the group. She had to keep to that rule herself. That door had opened today because Luo Cheng had asked the question inside someone's doorway; if it should be spoken of, it should be Luo Cheng's own words, from his own mouth. She backed out and turned the screen black.

At 3 p.m., Li Huilan came downstairs holding a photocopy.

"That receipt from Lao Kan—you write it or should I."

"I'll write it."

"Copy the amount from the bank slip, not from what he says." Li Huilan pressed the photocopy onto the table. "I counted the zeros on this twice."

She wrote line by line from the photocopy. The word "receipt" came slowly; when she reached the date the money had cleared, her pen stopped. She looked up at the wall clock.

3:40. The phone hadn't rung.

When she finished, she slid it to Li Huilan, who glanced at it. "Date's right." Then she added, "You've been sitting still all day."

"Waiting for a call."

"Didn't you get one at noon already."

"There's one more."

At 5:30, He Xiufen came upstairs, holding the ties of her apron, and pulled the order slip from her pocket to look at it—the line "back row, fourth door" had bled at the edges from the sweat of her palm.

"No call back?"

"No."

"Try again tomorrow morning." He Xiufen said. "Court people are out running around all day."

"Mm."

"He said those words himself." He Xiufen set the slip back by her hand. "You didn't push him, I didn't push him. Reporting it is your job; showing up is his business."

6 p.m., second floor. The outer office light was on, the desk already cleared: the order slip folded, the photocopy of Lao Kan's receipt weighed under the pen holder. The inner office door opened, and Lu Jibai came out to get water.

The water dispenser stood by the door. He bent down, the cup catching the thin stream.

"Found him?"

She looked up.

"Found him." She said. "The court will go serve him."

"Good."

He stood holding the cup for two seconds, didn't ask where.

"Don't go running over there yourself tomorrow."

"I won't."

"Mm."

The inner door closed.

She was alone in the outer office. She checked the date on Lao Kan's receipt against the bank slip once more, turned the desk lamp up a notch, rolled up her sleeves, and kept writing.

It was nearly eight when she got home. Zhi'an had kept dinner warm in the pot and was doing homework. When he heard the door, he came out of his room.

"Sis, any news today?"

"Yes."

"Found him?"

"Found him."

"So is he coming?"

"He says he's coming."

Zhi'an stood there, scratched the back of his neck. "Then why's your face like that? I thought you hadn't found him."

"Found him." She set down her bag and headed to the kitchen. "I'll serve myself."

"Sis." He stood at the kitchen doorway, still holding his pen. "That person—what is he to our family."

"He's not family." She turned on the tap and rinsed her hands. "He saw something happen."

"You've been looking for him for a month."

"I was looking for him so he could decide for himself whether to go."

Zhi'an turned that sentence over in his mouth, didn't say more. Dinner served, he sat across from her, and when he'd finished he went back to his room first.

At 10 p.m., under the desk lamp, her notebook lay open. She took the order slip out of her bag, pressed it beside her, and copied from it line by line.

September 2nd, 12:40.

Chengbei old machinery plant dormitory area, back row, fourth door.

A line left blank below:

Hearing. I'll go.

When she finished, she capped the pen, pressed her finger against the barrel, then unscrewed it again and added after that line: He said it himself.