Chapter 483: A Few Days Ago

"Jie, I need the 30th off."

Zhi'an stood in the kitchen doorway, a bowl in one hand. Water ran down the rim and dripped onto his instep. He switched the bowl to his other hand and wiped the free one on his pants.

She was crouched by the door, tying the garbage bag shut. She looked up. "Done."

"I asked in person. The homeroom teacher said I need to submit a written request when I get back."

"Submit it tomorrow."

He grunted, turned, and put the bowl in the sink. The water ran low as he rinsed the bowls one by one and set them upright in the rack. Only the sound of water filled the kitchen. Through the wall, a neighbor's TV murmured, too faint to make out any words.

"What should I wear?" he asked from across the room.

"Your own clothes."

"Not the school uniform?"

"No."

He came out of the kitchen and stood under the lamp. Dust had settled on the shade, and the yellowed light made his face look smaller than usual.

"That blue shirt of mine—the cuffs are worn through."

"Then let them be worn."

"Should I buy a new one?" He spoke slowly, as if calculating an account that wasn't his to calculate.

"No need." She carried the garbage bag to the door. "Black works too. It'll be dry by tomorrow."

He didn't leave. He shoved his hands into his pockets, then pulled them out again.

"Jie."

"Yeah."

"Will they read his name?"

She wiped her hand on her apron. "Yes."

"When they do, what should I do?"

"Nothing. Just listen."

He nodded once, then again.

"Where do I sit?" he asked.

"Next to me. The close-relatives row has two seats."

"Last time, which seat were you in?"

"Last time I sat next to the defense bench, at the extra table the court set up," she said. "You were in the first row of the gallery. This time the close relatives sit in one row."

"So this time I sit next to you."

"Yes."

He took two steps toward the kitchen, then turned back. "Is Director He going?"

"Yes. She's Dad's defense counsel."

"Where does she sit?"

"The front row. The defense bench."

"Then you're far from her."

"There's an aisle between us." She cinched the garbage bag tight. "Something on your mind?"

"No." He stood there. "Just asking."

"Who'll be lined up at the door?" he asked after a pause.

"Tang Guo's coming. Cen Hong said she'd be there. Brother Ma hasn't replied yet."

"What about me?"

"You're with me. Director He goes in front, we follow."

"Oh." He stretched the sound out a little. "And the paper—who gets it?"

"One copy's ours, one's Director He's, one goes to the Procuratorate."

"Our copy," he thought for a moment, "where are we keeping it?"

"Under the bed. With the others."

He seemed to file that away before asking, "Where do we go after sentencing?"

"Home."

"We're not going to see Dad?"

"The 4th," she said.

"I don't have class on the 4th." He picked it up himself. "What time?"

"8:40, at the mountain gate."

"Then what do I wear?"

"On the 4th, wear anything."

He smiled, brief and quick, then turned back toward the inner room. His homework lay spread on the desk, the pen cap unclicked. At the door he looked back. "Jie, I won't say anything."

"Okay."

"Not a single word?"

"If you do speak, say your own words." She added, "Sitting there—that's your words."

"Will Lawyer Lu speak that day?" His hand rested on the doorframe.

"No. He sits in the back."

"Why does he sit in the back?"

"It's quieter back there."

The door pulled shut, and a thin line of light showed beneath it.

She tidied the living room: put away two bowls, covered the half-eaten dish of pickles with another bowl, wrung out the rag and hung it by the sink. The TV stayed off. The clock on the wall ticked step by step—past nine, past 9:20. She stood on the balcony for a while, holding the bowl of pickles. Downstairs, an electric scooter was charging, a cord dangling from a second-floor window. The owner trudged upstairs cradling his helmet, his footsteps climbing the stairwell one step at a time.

She sat at the desk and tried to run through everything she needed to bring on the morning of the 30th. Midway she stopped writing, folded the paper twice, and tucked it into a drawer. He Xiufen had all the documents and papers. She was only responsible for the people.

On November 27 she didn't go out. In the morning she washed two dark shirts and hung them on the balcony, where the wind puffed them out and let them fall again. In the afternoon the sun came out. She turned Zhi'an's blue jacket inside-out and stitched the cuffs with two quick passes, hiding the thread ends inside. The fabric had faded nearly white from washing, and a patch of small pills had formed near the zipper.

When he came home from school he tried it on, raising his arm to check the cuff. "You can't tell."

"Even if you could, no one would look."

On November 28, a little past three in the afternoon, there were three knocks at the door, and after two seconds, two more. She opened it. Tang Guo stood outside holding a crate of tangerines. One corner of the cardboard box had gone soft from water.

"The fruit stall downstairs was closing up. Ten yuan for the box." Tang Guo changed into slippers and set the crate by the shoe cabinet. "I'm leaving it here. If you can't finish them, give some to Zhi'an."

She peeled one. The skin was thin, and juice splashed onto the back of her hand.

The low stool Tang Guo sat on had been bought last year—sitting on it, your knees came up to your chest. Tang Guo set her phone face-down on the table.

"I'm going on the 30th."

"Go."

"I'll sit. I won't film. Not even outside the door." Tang Guo spread both hands on her knees. "I didn't bring my equipment. Left it at home."

"Good."

"I brought my ID."

"Good."

"Guo Jianping asked if we should film outside the entrance. I said no." Tang Guo glanced at her. "Is that my call to make?"

"Yes." She split the tangerine open. "No filming by the door, either."

"And don't wear that yellow jacket."

"I'm not going on camera." Tang Guo laughed, then stopped short. "Last time, I sat in the back through half the hearing, sweating through my palms. I couldn't follow most of it, but I didn't dare look down."

"You won't understand it this time either?"

"I understand a little." Tang Guo said, "I can pick out names."

On the balcony, the two shirts pressed flat against the railing in the wind, then fell slack.

"I haven't posted anything these last few days, and the comments are off," Tang Guo said.

"And after the sentencing?"

"After the sentencing, we'll see."

"Once you have the paper, read what it says." She put a tangerine segment in her mouth. "Don't add anything."

"What would I add?" Tang Guo lowered her head and picked the white pith off a segment with her fingernail. "You think I haven't learned my lesson?"

"Can you sleep at night?" Tang Guo asked suddenly.

"I sleep fine."

"I can't." Tang Guo popped two segments into her mouth, one after the other. "Every time I think about reading your dad's name that day, I wake up."

"He's not read for you."

"I know." Tang Guo broke the tangerine in her hands in half, set one half in front of her, and ate the other. "I just wake up."

"Brother Ma asked in the group if he could come," Tang Guo said after a while.

"Coming alone is fine."

"He says he wants to bring two others."

She thought it over. "Have him bring two. Just tell them not to wear work uniforms into the courtroom."

"I already did. He also asked about helmets."

"Check them at the door."

Tang Guo got up and found a plastic bag, picked out the unbruised tangerines into it, tied it shut, and set it by Zhi'an's door. "He's taller than you now, isn't he?"

"Yes."

"Last month at the courthouse he wasn't this tall." Tang Guo looked at the door.

"Growing doesn't ask permission."

Tang Guo left at 4:30. At the door she turned back. "I'll sit in the back, on the aisle side."

"Okay."

"You look back, I'll be there."

After the door closed, she moved the tangerine crate against the wall. An ad flyer stuck out from under it, and she pulled it free and threw it out. A hair tie Tang Guo had forgotten lay wrapped around a stool leg. She picked it up and put it in a drawer.

She counted the people going: Director He, herself, Zhi'an, Tang Guo, Cen Hong, Brother Ma, and the two he'd bring. She stopped there, remembering He Xiufen's words: "Don't count."

A few days earlier she'd counted for six days straight, and after she finished, she hadn't slept all night.

On November 29, at 9:00 p.m., she locked the door. The light was still on in the inner room.

The paper bag under the bed was wedged between a cardboard box and the wall. She braced one hand on the bed frame and dragged the bag out with the other. Its edge scraped a gray streak across the floor tile. The bag's surface was pilled and frayed. Six lines ran top to bottom: Shen Qian. Petition. Shen Zhixia, May 9. Submitted to Jiangzhou Intermediate Court, May 19. June 18, Application for Investigation Order, submitted. August 5, Retrial Decision, Chengdong District Court.

She read each line in turn, then wiped her hand across the bag, clearing off a thin layer of dust.

The opening was folded twice. When she unfolded it, the paper made a small crisp sound. She drew everything out, one item at a time, and spread it across the bed.

The receipt the court issued on September 24 sat on top. Material names, item counts, handling officer—fountain-pen characters filling each column of the form. The corners had been worn glossy by fingers.

The seven pages photocopied at the Chengbei District Court archives on June 17 were stapled together. Each page bore a verification seal in the lower-right corner, the red bleeding to the edge of the paper. She turned to the first page and saw the surname at the bottom margin.

The petition was five pages. The first page's edge was frayed. The last page was the May 19 reprint—darker ink than the earlier pages, with a fresher signature. She didn't read on; she turned past it.

Three originals sat in a transparent sleeve: the household register, the release-from-prison certificate, the death certificate. On the first page of the household register, her father's name was stamped over with a square seal, the characters' edges broken in two places by the stamp's pressure. She flipped back to her own page. In the "relationship to household head" box was printed that word: "Daughter." She held the sleeve up to the light for a look, then laid it flat.

The retrial decision lay perfectly smooth, folded once, the crease down the center—carefully placed to avoid the signature line.

The bottom of the bag was empty now. The original of Pang Chunlai's interview record and the second disc had been submitted to the court on September 24. What came back was the receipt on top.

The bed was covered. She sat on the edge, both hands braced behind her, looking for a long time. Downstairs, someone pushed a bicycle past; the chain dragged on the ground the whole way, and at the intersection the sound stopped.

Six lines were still six lines. Below them was a stretch of blank space, enough for something more. There were pens in the drawer. She reached over and pushed the drawer shut a little tighter, but didn't take one.

When she packed the bag, she kept the original order: the three originals at the bottom, the petition pressed on top, the receipt against the petition's outer side, the seven verified pages tucked between the petition and the originals. The opening folded twice, pressed flat.

She remembered buying the bag at the stationery shop on May 9. The owner had asked if she wanted the hard-shell kind. Paper's fine, she'd said. It had been raining. She'd clamped the bag under her arm and run home, and there was still a faint watermark at one corner.

When she pushed the bag back under the bed, it knocked against the cardboard box, and the box slid half a foot inward. The lid wasn't fully closed; the corner of a hard cover poked out of the gap.

She crouched there, one hand still braced on the bed frame.

That line she didn't need to open: evidence speaks for itself.

She stood, pushed the box in a little further, and her knee cracked.

A thin line of light still glowed under the inner-room door. Tomorrow at seven in the morning, she would have to knock on that door herself.