Chapter 2: A Blanket Folded Square

At 6:30 the next morning, Lin Mo woke up as usual.

The sky wasn't fully light yet. A sliver of grayish-blue light leaked through the gap in the window, casting a chilly glow across the edge of the bed. He sat up, his feet touching floor tiles that had been worn fuzzy over three years, his heels picking up a bit of dust. He folded his quilt into a sharp square, edges crisp. Once finished, he pressed down on each of the four corners to make sure they were perfectly aligned. This habit hadn't changed in three years; in the Su Family home, no one noticed, and no one asked. Sometimes he’d wake up in the middle of the night and instinctively feel the corner of the blanket, only feeling at peace once he confirmed it was exactly where it belonged.

A draft swept through the hallway, chilling the buttons of his collar. By the time he headed downstairs, the kitchen was already humming. Zhao Lihua was frying eggs, her apron tied crookedly with a loose knot at the small of her back, exposing a stretch of pale, plump skin. The eggs sizzled in the pan, oil splattering onto the stove; she wiped it away casually with the back of the spatula, humming a tune that went off-key halfway through before she yanked it back. It was as if last night had never happened; her flip of the spatula was even more efficient than usual.

"Up already?" Zhao Lihua didn't even look back, flipping an egg. "Porridge is in the pot, serve yourself. Xiao Man is coming back today. Get the upstairs room ready and put on fresh sheets."

Lin Mo walked into the kitchen. The electric kettle was still venting white steam. He turned on the tap and filled his glass. It was plain white porridge, about half a pot left, thick with a layer of scorched crust at the bottom. He stirred it with a spoon and scooped out a full bowl, a thin layer of rice oil shimmering on the surface.

"Xiao Man is moving back?"

"For a while." Zhao Lihua slid the fried eggs onto a plate. The golden edges were slightly charred, but she didn't care, lining the bottom of the plate with a paper towel. "Something's going on at her school; she's coming back to clear her head. Just be mindful—don't hang around her too much."

Lin Mo stood by the stove holding his bowl. He took a mouthful of porridge; it was a bit too hot, so he held it in his mouth without swallowing, wiping his lips with the back of his hand.

"I have to work during the day."

"Then don't hang around at night." Zhao Lihua carried the plate toward the living room with a leisurely pace. At the door, she added in a slightly lower tone, "Xiao Man is blunt and doesn't speak kindly. Don't take it to heart. Just listen to whatever she says."

Lin Mo didn't respond. He finished the porridge, scraping the bottom of the bowl clean, washed it, dried it with a rag, and tightened the faucet. Before leaving, he tapped the motion-sensor light in the hallway; it flickered twice before coming on. The keys jingled in his pocket, the sound of metal hitting the seam of his trousers echoing through the hallway and back.

The construction site was quiet in the morning. Brother Zhou arrived around nine, parking his motorcycle by the shed with a plastic bag hanging from the handlebars containing two sesame cakes. He tossed a stack of forms at Lin Mo—the corners curled from the wind, stamped with red ink. "Material Entry Verification Forms." He was to verify the quantity of materials arriving on site. Lin Mo squatted beside a pile of cement, a piece of cardboard under his knees, checking them one by one. The sun beat down on the back of his neck until it burned, sweat trickling down his spine and soaking into the collar of his work clothes. The wind whipped up cement dust that settled on his shoulders in a gray haze. Every time he finished a page, he marked a tally in the blank space, the piece of chalk gripped in his palm until his skin turned white.

Around eleven, his phone rang. The ringtone sounded jarring in the open expanse of the site. Brother Zhou looked up, then looked back down at his own paperwork. Lin Mo answered; it was Zhao Lihua.

"Lin Mo, come home for lunch."

"What's wrong?"

"Xiao Man is here. She says she wants to see you." Zhao Lihua's tone was strange—not angry, but that kind of awkwardness that comes from not knowing which side to take. "Just come home."

Lin Mo glanced at the unfinished forms in his hand; six were left. "I'm still—"

"I told you to come home, just do it. It's not a big deal." The line went dead, the dial tone buzzing twice in his ear.

Brother Zhou had overheard and waved him off without asking questions. "Go on. I'll have someone else handle the rest."

Lin Mo rode his electric scooter back. He took a turn on the way and bought two buns—one meat, one vegetable—from a breakfast stall at the neighborhood entrance to tide him over, the plastic bag swinging in his hand. He arrived home just after twelve. The iron gate was slightly ajar. He pushed it open to find a young woman in the living room. She looked to be in her early twenties with short, chestnut-dyed hair that flicked out at the ends. She wore an oversized, faded navy-blue hoodie with a loose collar that exposed her collarbones. She was sitting cross-legged on the sofa, sinking into the cushion, wearing slippers and scrolling through her phone. The blue light of the screen reflected on her face, casting shadows of her eyelashes onto her cheekbones.

Zhao Lihua was busy in the kitchen. Hearing the door, she poked her head out, still holding the spatula. "You're back? Quick, Xiao Man is calling for you."

Su Man looked up, scanning Lin Mo from head to toe. Her gaze slid from his face to his collar, then to his shoes, before looking away. She placed her phone face-down on the coffee table.

"So, it's you."

Lin Mo changed his shoes, lining up his old slippers neatly toward the new ones. "Hello."

"My sister's bargain-bin husband." Su Man smiled, a quick flick of the lips that didn't reach her eyes, which remained slightly downturned. "My mom says you're really good at putting up with things. I'm here today to see if it's true."

Zhao Lihua brought out the food, three plates stacked high, the top one being glossy sweet and sour pork ribs. "Xiao Man, be polite."

"How am I not being polite?" Su Man tilted her head, resting her chin on one hand. "Mom, aren't I praising him? Being patient is a virtue."

Lin Mo sat down at the dining table, the chair legs scraping against the floor. He didn't take the bait.

Zhao Lihua had made four dishes: sweet and sour pork ribs, tomato and scrambled eggs, sautéed greens, and a plate of peanuts. It was more lavish than usual. Su Man took a couple of bites, chewed a piece of rib once, and put it down, tapping her chopsticks against the rim of her bowl. Suddenly, she asked, "Brother-in-law, what do you do for a living now?"

"Construction site. Materials coordinator."

"How much a month?"

"Four thousand five hundred."

Su Man let out a long, drawn-out "Oh," the tone dipping at the end as if she were savoring something. "Four thousand five hundred. My sister makes twelve thousand a month, right? She's supporting you?"

Zhao Lihua paused her chopsticks above a dish. She didn't say anything, gently placing food into Su Man's bowl.

Lin Mo took a mouthful of rice, chewing slowly. "I cover the household expenses too."

"How much?" Su Man pressed, setting her chopsticks on the table. "After utilities, how much of that four thousand five hundred is left? Who pays my sister's car and mortgage?"

"Xiao Man," Zhao Lihua finally spoke, but her voice was soft, like a stone wrapped in cotton. "We're eating."

"I'm just asking." Su Man put her chopsticks down and leaned back into the chair, her head resting against the back, exposing her throat. "Brother-in-law, I'm not targeting you. I just find it strange. A man, thirty years old, reduced to this—how do you have the nerve to live in someone else's house for three years?"

Lin Mo looked up at her. His gaze was flat, like the piles of cement on the site—gray, heavy, devoid of emotion. "Are you finished?"

"No." Su Man was caught off guard by the question. Her eyebrows shot up, and she doubled down, lifting her chin slightly. "I also want to say, my sister is a catch. Men line up for her. What does she see in you? Does she like the way you fold your blankets every morning?"

"Xiao Man!" Zhao Lihua's voice rose this time, her chopsticks clinking against the bowl, but her eyes were darting toward Lin Mo, gauging his reaction.

Lin Mo finished the last bite of rice in his bowl, leaving not a single grain. He set down his chopsticks with a slow, deliberate motion.

"First," he said, looking at Su Man, "the mortgage is in your sister's name, but I pay half. The transfer records are on my phone; I can show you if you want."

Su Man froze, her chopsticks rotating half a turn in her hand.

"Second, the utilities and property fees for the last three years have been paid by me. Your mother knows; the receipts are in her drawer."

Zhao Lihua's expression shifted. Her mouth opened slightly. "Lin Mo, you—"

"Third," Lin Mo continued, his voice remaining just as flat, "how I've turned out is my business. But I haven't eaten a single free meal in this house."

He stood up, the chair legs scraping again. He took his bowl to the kitchen sink, turned on the tap, rinsed it clean, and placed it upside down on the drying rack. He wiped away the splashes with a rag and tightened the faucet.

The living room fell silent for a few seconds. The range hood was still running, its low hum filling the void.

Su Man was the first to react. Her face flushed, her ears turning red. She rubbed her fingers against her knee. "Why are you being so aggressive? Did I say something wrong?"

"You didn't say anything wrong." Lin Mo dried his hands, folded the rag neatly by the sink, and stepped out of the kitchen. "I really am a failure. But your sister marrying me was her own decision. If you feel it's an injustice, go talk to her. Don't try to find a sense of importance by picking on me."

"You—" Su Man pointed at him, her fingertip trembling.

Zhao Lihua jumped up quickly, the oil stains on her apron rubbing against her trousers. "Alright, alright, why are you fighting during a meal? Xiao Man, stop talking. And Lin Mo, honestly, why are you arguing with a child?"

"I'm twenty-three!" Su Man snapped, her chin tilting up again.

"Twenty-three is still a child." Zhao Lihua pushed her back into the chair with a hand on her back, then shot Lin Mo a look, her eyes rolling toward the downstairs. "Go back to work. Don't you have more to do this afternoon?"

Lin Mo took his keys and left.

Behind him, Su Man was still talking: "Mom, look at him, acting all high and mighty..." Her voice was muffled by the door.

The door closed.

That afternoon at the site, Lin Mo finished the forms, stamped the last one, and handed the neat stack to Brother Zhou. He then helped unload a truckload of rebar. The steel bars crashed onto the concrete with a thunderous clang that left his soles numb. He bent, lifted, and threw, repeating the motion a dozen times. Sweat soaked through his back, the work clothes clinging to him, the fabric between his shoulder blades turning a deep gray. Brother Zhou handed him a bottle of water, the label wrinkled from sweat. "Trouble at home?"

"No."

"You kid," Brother Zhou said, sitting on a bundle of rebar and lighting a cigarette. The flame flickered in the wind before catching. "You sounded pretty confident yesterday. I thought about it—a guy like you doesn't look like he's meant to spend his whole life on a construction site."

Lin Mo unscrewed the cap and drank half the bottle, the water pouring down his neck and into his collar, giving him a chill. "Brother Zhou, you overestimate me."

"I've done engineering for twenty years. I'm good at reading people." Brother Zhou flicked the ash onto the steel. "You have no calluses on your hands, not even in the webbing between your thumb and index finger. A materials coordinator moving stuff doesn't have hands like yours."

Lin Mo looked down at his hands. His knuckles were well-defined, his palms clean, the skin at the base of his thumb smooth. Even the heavy lifting of cement hadn't toughened his skin.

"I won't ask," Brother Zhou waved him off, crushing the cigarette butt under his shoe. "Everyone has a past. You're a steady worker, so I'll keep you."

Lin Mo returned home at dusk. The sky had faded to black, and the streetlights had just come on, casting long, yellow shadows of the trees. Entering the house, he saw Su Man in the living room. Beside her was a silver-gray suitcase with a black bag hanging from the handle. Zhao Lihua shouted from the kitchen, "You're back? Xiao Man has a lot of stuff; help her carry it upstairs."

Su Man didn't say a word this time. She stood up and walked toward the stairs, her slippers scuffing against the steps. After two steps, she stopped and looked back.

"Hey."

Lin Mo grabbed the suitcase, the wheels rolling once on the floor.

"About lunch," Su Man said, turning her face away, her chin gesturing toward the stairs. "I was a bit harsh. But I still stand by what I said—if you really have no talent, stop dragging my sister down."

Lin Mo carried the suitcase upstairs. It wasn't light; the muscles in his arm tensed. "Your sister is smarter than you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"She knows what she's doing." Lin Mo set the suitcase down at the guest room door with a click of the wheels. "You don't."

Su Man stood at the top of the stairs, her lips pressed into a thin line. She stared at his back for a long time before finally squeezing out, "You are seriously annoying."

Dinner was quiet. Zhao Lihua tried to start a conversation several times, stirring her bowl, but Su Man shut her down with a cold face. In the end, she only managed a "the food is too salty, be careful next time." Lin Mo went upstairs as soon as he finished; the motion-sensor lights lit up one by one, then went dark once he reached the second floor.

Around nine, he sat in his room looking at his phone. The room was small—one bed, one desk. On the desk sat an enamel mug with the words "Serve the People" printed in red, a small chip of paint missing. The screen lit up. Another encrypted message, from the same number as last night—a string of incomprehensible code followed by a date and timestamp.

This one was longer:

"Rock, orders from superiors: Report back to the unit within three days. Mission code 'Homecoming'. Contact: Chen. Tomorrow night at 8:00 PM, Wangjiang Teahouse, West City, second-floor private room. This message serves as your credential. Failure to report will be viewed as abandonment. Consequences are your own."

Lin Mo stared at the screen for a long time. His thumb hovered over the glass, neither scrolling nor pressing. Outside, the moonlight was the same as last night, turning the opposite wall white. The shadow of the locust tree swayed in the wind, looking like someone writing on the wall and then erasing it. From downstairs came the sounds of Su Man and Zhao Lihua talking—fragmented, muffled by the floorboards, but the tone was unfriendly. Su Man's voice was sharp, Zhao Lihua's was soft, the two of them entwined in a clash of hard and soft.

He locked the screen and placed the phone face-down on the desk. A tiny wisp of steam still rose from the enamel mug.

Three seconds later, he picked it up again. His finger tapped two words on the screen and hit send:

"Received."