Chapter 5

That night, Mr. Lewis’s son, Kyle Lewis, came to my door carrying a case of milk.

His eyes were red. “Uncle Mick, my dad told me to come and tell you that Ben is an ungrateful bastard. Don’t be upset. If you want to set up the stand again, the people in our village will chip in and help you build it.”

I said there was no need, but he wouldn’t leave and insisted on putting the milk down.

The milk carton was heavy, and when I took it, I saw an envelope tucked underneath it.

Inside the envelope was a stack of cash, mixed bills and all, looking like the whole village had pooled it together.

There was a note pressed on top of the money, written in crooked handwriting, and I didn’t know who wrote it: “Uncle Mick, we paid for the porridge stand. Don’t think it’s too little.”

I didn’t think it was too little.

I sat there facing that stack of cash for the whole night.

Early the next morning, I was crouched at the door smoking when I suddenly heard a commotion at the village entrance.

I walked out and froze.

The porridge stand was there.

The stove, the iron pot, and the enamel bowls were all back, neatly arranged where they had been before.

There was also a new folding table beside it, with a pack of tea and a bag of sugar on top.

A person was standing beside the truck. It wasn’t Ben. It was the young audit officer from yesterday.

He ran over, looking a little embarrassed. “Uncle Mick, about what happened yesterday… we got it wrong. Your stand shouldn’t just avoid a penalty, it should be praised. I went back and checked the policy, and in a case like yours, the town government should actually provide a subsidy.”

He pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket. It was a subsidy application form.

“I filled it out for you. You just need to sign it.”

I took the form, and my hands were shaking a little.

Not from excitement. It was just that I thought things in this world were kind of funny sometimes.

My own son brought people to smash the stand, but an outsider secretly put it back for me.

I hesitated for a moment. “Where’s Ben?”

The auditor’s expression turned a little awkward.

He hesitated for a long time before lowering his voice. “Mr. Ben was called in for a talk. After the bureau found out about this, the leaders were very angry. They said he didn’t understand policy, didn’t follow principles, and acted recklessly. He’s writing a self-criticism right now, and he might have to…”

He didn’t finish, but I understood what he meant.

I didn’t say anything and just signed my name.

After the auditor left, I sat in the porridge stand for a while.

The stove was still the same stove, and the pot was still the same pot, but somehow it felt like something was missing.

Later I figured it out. What was missing was that warm feeling.

The porridge hadn’t been cooked yet, and the pot was cold.

Just as I was spacing out, I heard someone shout behind me, “Uncle Mick, we’ve got customers!”

I turned around and saw two big trucks parked at the village entrance. It was a pair of old truckers who used to pass through this route all the time.

They must have heard that the porridge stand had almost been torn down, and they took a detour just to come here.

“Uncle Mick, we heard your stand was getting torn down? That won’t do. The few of us have been driving this route for twenty years, and we’re counting on your hot porridge!”

I quickly stood up and hurried to start the fire.

The fire lit.

The water boiled.

I put the rice in the pot.

The smell of porridge slowly started to drift out.

Through the steam, I vaguely saw what Ben looked like when he was little.

A tiny kid, standing on tiptoe to look into the pot, shouting, “Dad, is the porridge ready yet? I’m hungry.”

Back then, he was still small. He didn’t know yet that there was a word in this world called principle, and that it could split a person clean in two.

In the rising steam, I ladled porridge into the drivers’ bowls.

They took the bowls and, after one sip of the hot porridge, all had looks of relief on their faces.

One driver suddenly said, “Uncle Mick, we’ve all heard about your son. Don’t be sad. People are made of flesh and blood. He’s still young. He’ll understand someday.”

I didn’t answer and just added another ladle of water to the pot.

Then several more vehicles arrived, and a group of people got out.