The day we left, it wasn't light yet.
Mom woke me. The room was cold. I didn't want to get up.
She said: up. The bus won't wait.
I sat up and put on my padded coat. The sleeves had shrunk a stretch short; my wrists showed.
She opened the knitting notebook and held it close to the lamp.
She said: can you still connect this one?
She read two words, slowly.
I waited for them to connect on their own.
They didn't.
I said: won't connect.
She said: oh.
She closed the book and put it under the sewing basket.
Mom got up to pack my lunch. An aluminum box, two layers, pickles in the top one.
She stuffed the box into my schoolbag. The strap had snapped once; she'd sewn it twice over.
She said: when you're back I'll wash it.
I said: mm.
She walked me to the gate of the compound. Coat unbuttoned, hands up her sleeves.
Master Qiao stood in his doorway. He didn't see me off.
He said: go early, come back early.
Then he went inside. He still had the soldering iron in his hand.
Wang Chaosheng's mother didn't come. She was on night shift.
He came himself. His strap was broken; he carried the bag in his hand.
I said: I'll sew it for you.
He said: no need.
He carried it in his hand the whole way.
The bus was parked at the mill gate. Green-skinned, wooden-slat seats.
People were already on it. The recorder sat in the last row, hugging a bag.
Before we boarded, the recorder collected our notebooks.
He said: all the books stay behind.
I said: why?
He said: it comes from above.
I gave him my blue booklet.
I had one pencil stub left in my pocket. I pushed it down into my sock.
It pressed a little when I walked. I didn't say.
Wang Chaosheng waved me over. He'd saved two seats.
He said: saved it for you.
So I sat.
A boy from the compound across the river came too. He carried a pillow.
Two grown-ups were on the bus as well. One in glasses. One driving.
The one in glasses kept watching us. Each time he looked, he made a mark in his book.
Wang Chaosheng said: they're checking us.
I said: checking what?
He said: checking if we're fake.
I said: fake how?
He said: the words being fake.
I said: my words aren't fake.
He said: my mom said. The higher-ups want to check.
I said: oh.
The bus started. Out of the city.
First buildings. Then trees. Then mountains.
The road was bad. Dirt, and with every jolt your head knocked the roof.
Wang Chaosheng didn't hold on. He said: I won't hit it.
He hit it anyway. When he hit it he rubbed his head.
The boy vomited. On his own pillow.
The recorder came back from the front, gave him paper to wipe with.
He said: wipe up.
When the boy finished, the recorder threw the paper out the window.
Wang Chaosheng said: I'm going to throw up.
The recorder said: don't.
So Wang Chaosheng didn't. He turned his face to the window.
The bus stopped once. The grown-ups got off to smoke. We got off too.
There was a ditch by the road. No water in it.
Wang Chaosheng threw stones into the ditch. He threw five.
The recorder called: back on.
So we got back on.
Lunch was on the bus. Buns. Pickles.
The buns had gone hard. I couldn't bite through. I gnawed with my front teeth.
Wang Chaosheng finished his. He licked the lunch box clean.
He said: your pickles are good.
I said: my mom pickles them.
He said: my mom doesn't pickle. My mom buys.
I said: oh.
He said: bought ones are too salty.
We drove a long time in the afternoon. Long enough that I fell asleep.
I woke once. The bus was stopped; someone was selling persimmons at the roadside.
The persimmons sat in baskets, cloth over the baskets.
The driver stayed in his seat. He said: can't get through.
The one in glasses got down. He bought six, wrapped in paper.
On the bus he handed them out, one each.
The persimmons were soft; one squeeze and they dented.
I ate one bite. Sweet. So sweet my teeth ached.
Wang Chaosheng finished his in two bites and threw the skin out the window.
The recorder said: don't throw the skin.
So he held it in his fist. Held it the whole stretch.
He only threw it when he got off.
We drove a long time again. Long enough that I slept.
When I woke, the bus was climbing. The slope was long and the bus roared.
Mountains out the window, layer on layer, each layer paler.
I asked: are we there?
The recorder said: soon.
When we arrived it was nearly dark.
A compound. A row of low rooms. Brushed characters on the wall, half fallen away.
The half that was left I couldn't read.
A tree in the compound. A wire tied around its trunk.
A rag hung over the wire, frozen stiff.
The bulb inside was yellow. The switch was a string.
Pull it and it clicked first. Only after the click did the light come.
A shared bed platform. The quilts were damp. I pulled mine up to my nose and sniffed.
Two hooks behind the door. One crooked.
Plastic sheeting nailed over the window. Torn, mended with paper.
The cook was a woman. She told us to call her the cook.
She asked: how many kids?
The recorder said: four.
She said: four kids, two pots.
On the table inside stood a box. Wooden, with knobs on it.
I reached to turn one.
The one in glasses said: don't touch.
I took my hand back.
Later the room emptied. I turned one.
No sound.
I turned again. All the way.
Still no sound.
I turned the knob back where it was.
At supper I asked the cook: does this box ever make sound?
She said: it does.
I said: how come I didn't hear it?
She said: nothing comes in here.
I said: where does it come in?
She said: in the city.
I didn't ask more.
Two days later I asked her again: how come it doesn't sound here?
She said: it's broken.
I said: broken since when?
She said: half a year.
She said: nobody's come to fix it.
I didn't ask more.
Supper was thin porridge, one bowl each. The bowls were coarse clay, one chipped at the rim.
Salty. I drank two bowls of water.
Wang Chaosheng drank three. He said he was salty.
The cook said: slow down, you'll be up in the night.
He drank anyway.
We washed our own bowls. Water dipped from the vat. It froze your hands.
The boy couldn't manage his and dropped his bowl.
It didn't break. The floor was dirt.
The cook said: it's fine. She picked it up and wiped it.
Before sleep I hung my coat on a hook. The crooked one.
It slid off once. I hung it again.
The recorder smoked at the doorway, then ground the butt under his heel.
He said: sleep. Early start tomorrow.
I said: what about you?
He said: I'll sleep after.
He sat on the sill with the bag on his knees.
When I lay down he was still sitting.
After supper the one in glasses called us inside.
One at a time, questions.
He asked Wang Chaosheng: any or not?
Wang Chaosheng said: there is.
He asked the boy: and you?
The boy said: none.
He asked me: you?
I said: none.
He wrote in his book. Then he asked: how many days?
I said: today.
He closed the book.
Wang Chaosheng said: I said there is. Why didn't you write it?
The one in glasses said: I wrote it.
Wang Chaosheng said: I saw you. You didn't write.
The one in glasses said: I wrote.
Wang Chaosheng went quiet. He sat back and put his hands in his pockets.
At night the four of us slept on the shared platform.
When the light died the room went black.
The boy wanted his mother. He cried quietly.
Wang Chaosheng said: what's there to cry?
He stopped.
I lay and listened.
Other sounds in the room. Someone turning over. Someone grinding teeth.
The cook coughing in the next room.
That sound — none.
I listened a while.
Nothing.
So I slept.
That night I dreamed.
I dreamed it turned light. I dreamed the cook lifted the steamer in the kitchen.
A tray of white buns, steaming.
I dreamed Wang Chaosheng broke half off for me.
He said: no pickles today.
In the morning I got up. I stood at the kitchen door.
The cook lifted the steamer.
White buns. Steaming.
Wang Chaosheng broke half off for me.
He said: no pickles today.
I bit in.
I didn't say anything.
I finished the bun, went to rinse my mouth. The water was ice.
I told Wang Chaosheng I'd dreamed.
I said: I dreamed last night.
He said: dreamed what?
I said: dreamed today.
He said: dreamed today there'd be buns.
I said: mm.
He said: that's nothing.
He finished his bun. He licked his fingers.
Nothing to do in the daytime. We ran in the compound.
A crack opened on my hand, at the base of the thumb, gaping.
The cook saw it, dug a bit of fat off the stove edge, and rubbed it in.
The fat was lard, cold, slick going on.
She said: don't lick it.
I said: won't.
She had me help strip scallions. Two in, my eyes burned.
I went out and stood in the wind. In the wind it stopped burning.
Wang Chaosheng was hopping squares in the compound. He'd drawn the squares himself, with a brick.
The cook didn't allow us in the kitchen. She said: hot.
There were chickens. They scratched the ground, scratched out a pit.
Wang Chaosheng chased them. They flew up onto the wall.
The cook scolded him. He didn't listen.
Cold. My hands froze, fingers wouldn't bend back.
Wang Chaosheng stuffed my hand into his armpit.
He said: warm it.
After a while my hand itched.
I pulled it back.
The latrine was outside the compound, a walk away.
At night I didn't dare go. I held it.
I only went the next morning.
Frost on the path. It crunched underfoot.
After the sun came up, old men sunned themselves at the base of the wall.
They watched us. They asked: from where?
Wang Chaosheng said: the mill.
They said: what's the mill send you for?
I said: to stay.
They didn't ask more.
After breakfast the one in glasses called us in again.
One at a time.
He asked me: any or not?
I said: none.
He asked: how many days?
I said: two.
He wrote.
Once the one in glasses asked me: has it ever said "you" to you?
I said: what?
He said: you. The word "you."
I said: no.
He said: remember it. If it ever does, you say.
I said: oh.
I didn't know why that was worth remembering.
Wang Chaosheng fished a tin strip out from under the bed mat. He said: off a spring.
He pushed the tin into his sock.
I said: doesn't it press?
He said: it presses.
He kept it in anyway.
He asked Wang Chaosheng: you?
Wang Chaosheng said: there is.
He still reported words. He reported: Bright. Go. East.
The recorder wrote.
The boy said: you're making it up.
Wang Chaosheng said: I heard it.
The boy said: there's nothing here.
Wang Chaosheng said: heard is heard.
The recorder said: report yours.
The boy went quiet.
The one in glasses said: the ones that can't be reported get written down too.
I said: write down what?
He said: write "none."
I said: "none" counts as an entry?
He said: it counts.
He said: for the unreported, write clearly why they went unreported.
So the recorder wrote. One line.
I couldn't read the first character. I asked: what's this?
He said: not reported.
I said: what's "not reported"?
He said: what didn't get reported.
On the third day the boy wanted to go home.
He wouldn't eat. He sat on the sill hugging his pillow.
The recorder squatted down to him and said: two more days.
He said: I won't.
The recorder said: two more days and we go.
He kept hugging the pillow.
Later he ate half a bowl.
At night he cried again. This time no sound at all.
I heard him gulping air.
The next morning he told me: I heard a little bit.
I said: heard what?
He said: don't know. Just a little.
I said: then why didn't you report it?
He said: I didn't dare.
So he didn't report it.
I set pebbles on the windowsill.
One a day.
Three set, in a row.
The wind came and rolled one off.
I picked it up and set it back.
The second night I waited.
I lay still. Eyes shut.
I waited for it to come.
It didn't come.
No dream came either.
In the morning the sill still held three pebbles.
The third night I dreamed again.
I dreamed someone calling in the compound.
The call was: the bus is here.
The next day someone really did call.
The same call: the bus is here.
I ran out. A vehicle stood at the gate.
It carried coal. Black coal, piled past the top of the bed.
The cook said: that's the coal run.
I said: oh.
I still thought it was the bus.
That afternoon the grown-ups talked inside.
Door shut. Voices held down.
I squatted under the window to listen.
I heard one line: they aren't making it up.
And another: that still doesn't settle it.
After that I couldn't make anything out.
Wang Chaosheng squatted down beside me, ear to the door panel.
The cook saw. She said: go on, go.
So we went.
We left on the morning of the fourth day.
The cook gave us a bun each.
She said: take it. Eat on the road.
The buns were warm. I tucked mine inside my coat.
The recorder's bag was fuller than on the way in.
He held it in his arms the whole way and never let go.
Wang Chaosheng said: what's in his bag?
I said: notebooks.
He said: more than notebooks.
I said: what else then?
He said: I don't know either.
He craned his neck to look back. The recorder turned the bag around.
Wang Chaosheng drew his neck back.
On the bus Wang Chaosheng said he'd had it every one of those days.
I said: you're making it up.
He said: I heard it.
I said: there's nothing here.
He said: nothing here, but it's still there.
I said: where?
He said: don't know. It's still there.
I stopped talking.
The boy slept on the bus. Still hugging the pillow.
One patch of it dirty. The patch where he'd vomited.
Asleep, he still held it.
I watched a while. I fell asleep too.
When I woke, the bus was in the city. City lights, yellow, row after row.
By the time we reached the mill gate it was fully dark.
One lamp at the gate was broken.
Under the lamp that was left, moths, smacking into it, pat-pat.
Home.
Mom was collecting laundry in the compound.
She saw me and set the basin down.
She asked: where'd you go?
I said: the mountains.
She said: mountains for what?
I said: to stay.
She said: stay for what?
I said: don't know.
She didn't ask more. She took my schoolbag.
Her hand went in and came out with a pencil stub.
She said: what's this?
I said: a pencil.
She said: the mill office give it out?
I said: mm.
She set the pencil stub on the windowsill.
She asked: what's in the mountains?
I said: no broadcast.
She said: quiet, then.
She carried the laundry inside. Piece by piece she shook each one out and stacked it on the kang.
She asked: what's wrong with you?
I said: nothing.
She said: you look off.
I said: no.
She went inside.
That night I lay down.
Sounds outside the window. The broadcast, already finished.
I listened a while.
It was still there.
Same as before I left.
I didn't tell anyone.
My strap had come apart again.
Mom took a needle and sewed it twice.
She said: stop carrying stones in there.
I said: not carrying.
She said: not carrying, how's it so heavy?
I didn't say.
The next morning I went to the mill office again, for the notebooks.
The recorder handed mine back.
He said: this time you keep them yourselves.
I said: not collecting them anymore?
He said: not this time.
I opened my book. Still number thirty-six.
Number thirty-seven still empty.
I counted once. After thirty-seven comes thirty-eight.
I closed the book and clamped it under my arm.
In the afternoon I went to the mill office again.
Master Qiao was fixing a speaker. Soldering iron on the windowsill.
He said: back, then.
I said: back.
He said: cold in the mountains?
I said: cold.
He said: cold, then it's right.
I didn't get what it was right for.
The recorder thumbed through the book. He turned to the day we left.
The room was cold. He kept his hands up his sleeves and brought them out only to write.
Out, they were red. Written, back in they went.
He asked: how many days?
I said: four.
He wrote. When he finished he asked: none of it, any of you?
I said: none of it.
Wang Chaosheng said: I had some.
The recorder said: wait.
He turned to the back of the book and wrote a little something.
Then he said: begin.
Wang Chaosheng reported. Six words: Bright. Press. Go. East. Down. Steady.
I waited.
I waited a long time. Long enough that Wang Chaosheng took the pencil stub out of his mouth.
I said: it says, you're not done setting it.
The recorder's hand stopped.
He said: you?
I said: mm.
He said: saying it to whom?
I said: don't know.
He said: has it ever said "you" before?
I said: no.
He wrote. When he finished he read it back once.
He read: it says, you're not done setting it.
Then he paused a moment.
Beside that line he wrote two small characters. Small — I couldn't read them.
I said: what did you write?
He said: none of your business.
He set down the pen. He said: that's it for today.
Two days later was Friday. He stitched the sheets into a stack as before.
Three holes with the awl. Before punching he pressed the paper down, leaving a crease.
When he finished he didn't ask if it was complete. He put the notebooks straight into the drawer.
Outside, Wang Chaosheng asked me: saying it to whom?
I said: don't know.
He said: it says "you," it's saying it to you.
I said: I haven't got a name over there.
He said: then who's it saying it to?
I said: don't know.
He went oh. He fished out a marble and rolled it on the steps.
The marble dropped off the steps. He went down after it.
He picked it up and wiped it on his sleeve. Wiped, he said: it's still there.
I said: those days you said you had it too.
He said: had is had.
I said: then what you said — what was it?
He said: what I said was what I heard.
He didn't say more. He put the marble back in his pocket.
Master Qiao smoked at the doorway. He coughed first.
He said: done reporting?
I said: done reporting.
He said: get back early. It's going dark.
At night I got up for water.
Frost on the window. A white layer.
With my fingernail I scratched one character into it.
The character was: you.
The scratch melted a little and the character went thick.
It ran. Ran one streak.
I wiped it with my sleeve.
The next morning I went to look at the glass.
Nothing on the glass.
I rubbed it with a finger.
The finger came away wet.