Chapter 1: Hot Soup by the Ice Hole

Su Wan was jolted awake by the weight of a freezing quilt being slammed onto her.

"You lazy brat, still playing dead? The sun’s already hitting the rafters! Who’s going to cook the pig slop? The whole family is waiting on you!"

A woman in her forties stood by the edge of the kang, hands on her hips. A piece of hemp rope cinched her cotton-padded trousers, and her face was flushed red from the cold, white puffs of steam escaping her mouth. Su Wan’s head felt like it was stuffed with tangled wool—one half filled with the humming industrial sewing machines of a 21st-century garment factory in the south, the other half with nineteen years of life in a mud-brick house in Kaoshan Village, surviving on watery gruel and endless, grinding days.

The two memories collided, making her temples throb. She reached up to the back of her head and felt a crusted, jagged wound.

"Wang Guixiang," she heard herself say. Her voice sounded like a rusted hinge.

"Oh? You’ve got the nerve to use my full name now?" The woman tossed the quilt toward the end of the kang. "Listen here, Su Wan, don't think that bumping your head on the doorframe gives you an excuse to rot in bed. At two o'clock this afternoon, the Li family from Hongqi Commune is coming to haul away the sewing machine. They’ve already counted out the one hundred and ten yuan."

A loud buzz filled Su Wan’s brain.

That Butterfly Sewing Machine was the only dowry her mother had brought when she married. The paint on the machine head had worn away to reveal the raw wood beneath. In the original owner’s memories, this machine was the only thing of value in the house, and it was the very thing her mother had gripped her hand to talk about on her deathbed: "Wan’er, as long as the machine is here, you’ll have food to eat."

"That was my mother’s dowry." Su Wan propped herself up on the edge of the kang. The front of her cotton jacket was ice-cold—soaked from the water she’d vomited the night before.

"Your mother has been dead for three years!" Wang Guixiang’s voice rose to a screech. "Once a dowry enters the Su household, it belongs to the Su family. Your father already gave the nod, so who do you think you are? You eat my food and drink my water, wearing the same jacket for three years, and you’re still trying to protect a piece of junk?"

The door curtain lifted, and a small head poked in. Eight-year-old Su Xiaojun was wearing a padded jacket with the cotton stuffing poking out. Two trails of snot hung from his nose, and he hunched his shoulders as he shuffled toward the kang. "Sister, don't get up, you still have a fever..."

"You little brat, who told you to come in here!" Wang Guixiang reached out to twist the boy’s ear.

Su Wan grabbed her wrist.

Those hands had spent eight years working industrial sewing machines and five years pressing electric cutters in a garment factory; they had plenty of strength. Wang Guixiang struggled twice, failed to break free, and froze. The look in the girl’s eyes was different. Before, it had been the look of someone cowering in a corner, only capable of crying when scolded. Now, her gaze was fixed and cold, like she was inspecting a botched piece of fabric.

"Auntie." Su Wan released her hand and slowly pulled her brother behind her. "The machine is being picked up this afternoon, right? Fine. But until two o'clock, don't you step foot in this room."

Wang Guixiang rubbed her wrist, a flicker of unease in her heart, though her mouth remained sharp. "W-what are you going to do? Let me tell you, if you dare to block them when they get here, I’ll have your father break your legs!" She stormed out, the sound of a basin being smashed echoing from the courtyard.

Su Wan leaned against the wall, catching her breath as the memories in her head finally settled into place.

She had been trapped in the book. She’d transmigrated into a period drama she’d heard her coworkers discussing during a night shift, becoming a piece of cannon fodder so insignificant she didn't even have a name in the original text. She was a villager from the same place as the protagonist, Lin Qiaoyun, and the eldest daughter of the Su family—a burden. The original book had written her fate in black and white: Chapter Ten, the seventeenth day of the twelfth lunar month, Su Wan would be caught stealing corn from the Production Brigade, flee across the frozen surface of the Reservoir in the middle of the night, fall through the ice, and be found frozen stiff.

Today was the eighth day of the twelfth lunar month.

Nine days left.

Su Wan pulled the collar of her brother’s jacket together. The fabric was so coarse it scratched her skin, and the cuffs were worn thin enough to see the cotton batting. She touched the head of the sewing machine. It was cold. She gave the handwheel a turn, but it jammed; the belt hung loose, and the shuttle race was packed with years of lint and dried machine oil.

"Sister, are they really going to take the machine away?" Su Xiaojun looked up at her. "If they take it, how will you mend my pants?"

"They aren't taking it."

Su Wan climbed off the kang, the cold seeping through her soles the moment she touched the floor. She lifted the kitchen curtain to take a look: the rice jar was bottomed out, yielding only half a ladle of corn flour when scraped; there were two heads of pickled cabbage left in the crock, frozen solid; the string of dried chili peppers hanging from the rafters was the most respectable thing in the house.

Her father, Su Changshun, was squatting on the threshold smoking a pipe, his cotton hat pulled down to his eyebrows, his back arched like a bow. He’d thrown out his back lifting stones for the Brigade last autumn, leaving him with a chronic injury. He couldn't do heavy labor, his work points had dropped from ten to six, and he no longer had any say in the household.

"Father."

Su Changshun tapped his pipe against the threshold without looking up. "Wan’er, your stepmother... she’s doing this for the family. The Li family is giving us one hundred and ten yuan. It’ll be enough to get your brother a new cotton jacket and pay off the thirty yuan we owe the Brigade for your mother’s medical bills."

"One hundred and ten yuan. Once the machine is gone, what will Xiaojun and I wear next spring? Where will the money come from for your medicine when your back flares up?" Su Wan squatted down to look him in the eye. "Besides, as long as this machine is in our house, it can lay golden eggs. Once it’s gone, the money will be spent in a blink."

Su Changshun looked up, his lips moving, but in the end, he only sighed. "You know how your stepmother is."

The courtyard gate creaked, and Auntie Zhang from next door walked in carrying a winnowing basket with half a frozen cabbage inside. "Changshun’s wife, let me borrow your scale... Oh, Wan’er, you’re up? Why is your face so pale?"

Auntie Zhang was in her fifties, a widow with a sharp tongue and a warm heart; every piece of news in the village passed through her. She set the cabbage on the windowsill and lowered her voice. "Listen, Wan’er, you need to look out for yourself. I just came from the Brigade office, and guess what? For the commune’s performance on the fifteenth of the first lunar month, our Brigade is putting on a yangge dance. The twenty costumes we borrowed from the cultural station are all falling apart—crotches ripped, sleeves worn through, collars frayed. The Brigade leader’s wife is scouring the village for someone who knows how to use a sewing machine. If they’re mended within three days, it’s thirty work points and five pounds of white flour."

Su Wan’s hand froze in mid-air.

Auntie Zhang kept chattering. "But there are only two machines in the village. One is yours, and the other is with the wife of old Wang at the Supply and Marketing Cooperative, but she’s already doing work for the commune and can’t spare the time. The Brigade leader’s wife is so anxious she’s stomping her feet. She said if it comes to it, she’ll have to send them to the commune’s sewing society—it’s forty miles round trip, and the transport costs alone would be a nightmare."

"Auntie Zhang," Su Wan said, looking up. "Do me a favor and tell the Brigade leader’s wife to come to my house."

"Your house?" Auntie Zhang glanced toward the room, her voice dropping lower. "Will your stepmother let you take the job?"

"She doesn't have to let me." Su Wan smiled, a look that sent a slight chill down Auntie Zhang’s spine. "She wants to sell the machine this afternoon, so I need the whole village to know by this morning that this machine won't run without me."

Auntie Zhang looked back three times as she left.

Su Wan turned and went back into the room, pulling the curtain tight. She crouched in front of the sewing machine. She removed the belt and soaked it in hot water to soften it, then lifted the cover of the machine head, using the kerosene lamp from the stove to inspect it. The needle bar was slightly bent—the original owner had forced it through thick fabric last year. The shuttle case was packed with lint, and a set screw on the handwheel shaft was loose.

She looked for a screwdriver, but finding it too thick, she pulled a large steel needle from Wang Guixiang’s sewing basket, placed it against the screw, and tapped it bit by bit, testing the handwheel after every few taps. She had done this countless times at the factory; old-fashioned machines only had a few recurring issues. Half an hour later, the handwheel turned smoothly, and the sound changed from a grinding "creak-creak" to a steady, rhythmic "hum."

Su Xiaojun crouched nearby, his eyes growing wider. "Sister, when did you learn to fix machines?"

"In a dream." Su Wan put the belt back on and worked the treadle. The needle went "da-da-da," stitching a line so straight you could measure it with a ruler.

By the time the sun reached its zenith, footsteps sounded at the gate. Auntie Zhang led in a woman in her early forties wearing a blue khaki jacket, followed by a girl of fifteen or sixteen who hunched her shoulders, her red cotton jacket so short it left her wrists exposed.

"This is the Brigade leader’s wife," Auntie Zhang signaled.

Wang Guixiang rushed out from the east room, a smile plastered on her face. "You’re here? Come inside and warm up—"

"I’m not looking for you." The Brigade leader’s wife waved her off and looked straight at Su Wan, who was standing by the door. "Auntie Zhang says you know how to use a machine?"

"I do."

"Twenty yangge costumes, three days." The woman looked her up and down. "Can you handle it? This isn't just patching a pair of pants; these are for the stage."

Wang Guixiang rubbed her hands together anxiously. "Oh, she’s only nineteen, she’s clumsy, don't let her ruin your clothes—"

"I can do it." Su Wan lifted the curtain. "But first, I need to show you something."

She let the girl into the room, walked around her, and pinched the shoulder seams and armpits of her jacket. "This was made from an old one, right? The shoulders are too narrow, the sleeves are two inches too short, and every time you lift your arms, it hikes up. The buttons on the front were added later, but they’re off by half an inch, which is why it keeps pulling to one side."

The girl blushed. "My mother altered it. It always feels tight when I’m working."

"One hour." Su Wan looked at the Brigade leader’s wife. "I’ll fix it for you. If I can't, I won't take a single cent, and you don't have to let me take the job."

Wang Guixiang sneered from the side. "One hour? What are you going to use to fix it? Where’s the fabric? Where’s the cotton?"

Su Wan ignored her, took the girl’s jacket off, and turned it inside out. The fabric on the inner flap was unworn and still bright. She dug under the cabinet and pulled out a square of black corduroy her mother had left behind, pressed perfectly flat.

She used an awl for sewing shoe soles to pick the stitches—precise and quick. She removed the sleeves entirely, cut the inner flap fabric into two tubes to extend them, and edged the cuffs with the black corduroy. She reinforced the worn-out spots on the back with the old lining fabric she’d removed, let out the armpits by two inches, and re-marked the front buttons with a piece of soap—no tailor’s chalk, but the soap worked just fine.

"Be careful with the machine, don't prick your fingers," Auntie Zhang said, sweating on her behalf.

"Da-da-da-da—"

The moment the machine started, the room went silent. Su Wan’s feet worked the treadle with a steady rhythm, her hands guiding the fabric. When she hit a corner, she gave the fabric a gentle tug, and the stitches were as dense and uniform as if they’d been done by a factory machine. A perfectly straight line from start to finish, not a single skipped stitch.

Wang Guixiang’s mouth hung open, but no sound came out.

In less than an hour, the jacket was finished. The sleeves were longer, the shoulders wider, and she’d added two darts at the waist. The buttons were replaced with fabric-covered ones, each one sewn on neatly. The girl put it on, lifted her arms, bent over, and spun around. The jacket moved perfectly with her body, not tight at all.

The Brigade leader’s wife circled her three times, reaching out to touch the corduroy on the cuffs. "This work... even the commune’s sewing society couldn't do this."

"The sewing society charges three-fifty for a new jacket and makes you wait half a month." Su Wan flicked the loose thread away. "Twenty costumes, I’ll have them done in three days."

"Done." The Brigade leader’s wife made the decision on the spot. "Thirty work points in your name, and I’ll have Auntie Zhang bring you five pounds of white flour tomorrow. Also—" She paused and looked at Wang Guixiang. "I heard this machine was for sale?"

Wang Guixiang’s face stiffened. "Oh, it’s just that my family—"

"Whoever can put the machine to work is who should have it." The Brigade leader’s wife’s tone wasn't heavy, but it carried weight. "Wan’er, I’ll have someone bring the costumes this afternoon. You’re using the machine, and nobody is to touch it."

Once they left, Wang Guixiang’s face turned as dark as the bottom of a pot.

As the sun began to set, two men from another village arrived at the gate with a flatbed cart. Wang Guixiang went out to meet them, stammering for a long time. When the men looked into the room, they saw the sewing machine by the kang, half a piece of red silk spread out on top, and Su Wan hunched over, working the treadle.

"Is this machine still in use?" the lead man frowned.

"It is," Su Wan said without looking up. "The Brigade leader’s wife has a job for me, due in three days. If you take it now, and the Brigade asks about it later, I wouldn't know what to tell them."

The two men exchanged a look, and one of them spat on the ground. "Su family, are you using the Brigade to pressure me? I already paid a twenty-yuan deposit."

Wang Guixiang stomped her feet in a panic. "I’ll refund it! I’ll give it back!"

They left, the sound of the cart’s wheels fading into the distance across the snow. Su Wan finished the last row of stitching, cut the thread, and finally straightened her back, which felt like it was about to snap.

In the kitchen, she grabbed two handfuls of corn flour, added water, a pinch of salt, and boiled a pot of thin gruel. Su Xiaojun held his bowl, slurping loudly, but halfway through, he stopped, tears falling into the bowl. "Sister, you said yesterday you didn't want to live anymore."

Su Wan’s hand paused.

The original owner had been pushed into the doorframe by Wang Guixiang yesterday, blood streaming down her neck, and had laid on the kang half the night truly wanting to die. She reached out and pulled her brother’s head into her arms, saying nothing.

Su Changshun squatted by the stove, adding firewood, the flames casting deep shadows across the wrinkles on his face. After a long silence, he spoke in a muffled voice. "Wan’er, I’ll go to the Brigade tomorrow and see if I can get you registered as a half-laborer."

"No need." Su Wan shoved a cornstalk into the stove. "Father, just getting your back healthy is worth more than anything."

Night fell completely. Su Wan sat on the kang, counting the days by the light of the kerosene lamp.

The eighth day of the twelfth lunar month. In the original book, Su Wan died on the seventeenth. The ice hole at the Reservoir, found wearing only a single layer of clothing. She remembered her coworker cursing the author for being "truly ruthless" when they read that part. In the book, before Su Wan died, a bag of corn went missing from the Brigade, and all the footprints pointed to her. She ran because Wang Guixiang had whispered in her ear, "If they catch you, you’ll be paraded through the streets, and your brother won't be able to escape either."

One bag of corn, one human life.

Su Wan tucked the corner of the quilt around her brother and was about to blow out the lamp when the courtyard gate rattled.

"Is Auntie home? I’ve come to see you!"

A clear, bright female voice, filled with laughter. Su Wan looked up, peering through a crack in the frost-covered window paper. Standing at the gate was a girl in a military-green cotton jacket, two braids hanging over her chest, holding a package of brown sugar wrapped in kraft paper, the red paper string fluttering in the wind.

Lin Qiaoyun.

The protagonist of the original book.

And the other memory in Su Wan’s mind suddenly surfaced with a vivid image: the day the original owner fell into the ice hole, it was this same person who had come over with a smile, carrying a bowl of hot soup and saying, "Sister Wan’er, drink something hot to warm yourself up."