Siheyuan: I just came across and wanted to chase me away

Chapter 1156 Going to the countryside

Dusk, like a soaked gray cloth, weighed heavily on the roof of the courtyard house, even the remaining snow on the eaves was tinged with gray. Qin Huairu stood under the old locust tree at the gate of the courtyard, watching Bang Geng, carrying a faded canvas bag, disappear around the corner of the alley, turning back every few steps.

His figure was as thin as a leaf scorched by the autumn wind, swaying precariously as if it might be swept into the distant twilight at any moment. She raised her hand and wiped her face haphazardly, her fingertips wet with cold tears—her son had locked himself in his room last night, first smashing his most beloved wooden slingshot, which Jia Dongxu had made for him when he was a child, the wooden handle still bearing the patina of his own hands; then he lay on the edge of the kang (heated brick bed) crying, repeating over and over the same phrase, "I don't want to go to the countryside, there they can't even get white flour buns," his resentment mixed with fear like a rusty needle, stabbing her heart with sharp pain.

But in this world, who can truly act according to their whims? Qin Huairu sniffed, forcing back the tears welling in her eyes, her breath stinging with cold. Children always have to grow up, always have to venture out on their own, even if the road ahead is a barren slope overgrown with thorns, a river frozen with thin ice, or an endless darkness, they still have to step across it themselves. All she, as a mother, could do was mend the tear in the canvas bag overnight, stuff two pieces of fruit candy she couldn't bear to eat into the lining, and then chew and swallow the words, "Don't miss home when you get there."

As Qin Huairu turned to enter the courtyard, the door to the west wing creaked open, letting in a gust of cold wind carrying the smell of coal smoke. Jia Zhangshi, wearing an old cotton-padded coat patched in several places, its collar stained with black grease, glanced quickly in the direction Banggeng had disappeared, then warily scanned the courtyard before pulling her grandson into the shadows against the wall. She lowered her voice and said, "Banggeng, don't listen to your mother. She's just ignorant, all she knows is to tell people to accept their fate. We can't be like her."

Banggeng's hands were still gripping the strap of the canvas bag tightly, his knuckles white from the effort, his palms sweaty. The fear in his eyes was undisguised, like that of a frightened animal: "Grandma, I...I really can run away?" His voice trembled, the last syllable shaking. "Yesterday, Erzhuzi said that there are uniformed guards escorting the vehicles in the rural convoy, wearing red armbands, and they're really fierce. If I get caught while trying to escape, will...will I be beaten to death?"

"Silly child." Jia Zhangshi stuffed a warm cornbread into his hand. It was made from flour she had hidden behind the stove for two days, and her fingerprints were still on it. "You're going to the countryside for reform, not committing a capital crime. Do you think they'd dare beat you up? If they do, we'll sue them and see if they can bear the responsibility!" She patted Banggeng's head, the calluses on her hands digging into his head, but her eyes gleamed with the shrewdness of an old fox. "Remember, as soon as the car enters the mountain road, look for an opportunity. Jump down into the woods by the roadside and go deep into the woods. The trees are dense in the mountains, they won't be able to catch you. If you are caught, don't be afraid. Just lie on the ground, cry, cry as hard as you can. Say you're homesick and crazy, that you're young and don't know any better, and honestly admit your mistake. What can they really do to you?"

Banggeng took a bite of the cornbread, the warm aroma and subtle sweetness soothing the anxiety in his heart. He nodded vigorously, a hint of confidence finally returning to his eyes. Yes, Mom always advised him to "listen" and "accept his fate," but what good was listening? Wouldn't he still be dragged to that godforsaken, impoverished mountain village, spending his life dealing with clods of dirt? Grandma was right, if you can run, you have to run; only by running can you find a way to survive.

The roar of a truck echoed from the alley entrance, shaking the courtyard walls. Two men in blue uniforms knocked on doors one by one, their faces expressionless. They said "please," but their tone was as hard as stone, and their pushing and shoving carried an undeniable force—everyone in the courtyard knew that this wasn't an invitation, but a forced entry.

As Banggeng and two other teenagers from the yard were being pushed onto the truck, Qin Huairu chased after it, her hair whipped around like a tangled mess in the wind, her voice hoarse from shouting, "Banggeng! Work hard over there! Don't fight with anyone! Remember to wear warm clothes if you get cold! If you really can't take it anymore, just... send a message back through someone! Mom is saving up some flour for you!"

Banggeng clung to the truck railing, watching his mother's figure grow smaller and smaller. His heart felt like a tangled mess of waterlogged knots, heavy and suffocating. He didn't answer, only nodded forcefully, burying his face in his elbows. What was the point of saying so much? His thoughts had already flown to Sandao Ridge, dozens of miles away—Grandma had said that beyond Sandao Ridge lay dense forest, the best opportunity; the truck would slow down when turning there, making it less likely to fall if he jumped.

The truck bumped and jolted as it prepared to depart, the dust it kicked up stinging Qin Huairu's eyes and making her cough. She stood there, watching the truck disappear around the corner, then suddenly squatted down and burst into tears, her shoulders sobbing like a rain-soaked ear of corn. She knew what Banggeng was planning; she had seen the sharpened piece of iron he had hidden under his pillow last night, but hadn't dared to speak of it. She dared not stop him, nor could she. The path of this world was never one that a woman like her, with no real ability, could choose for her son.

Inside the truck, Banggeng quietly touched the small knife hidden in his waistband—he had secretly sharpened it from a saw blade he'd found; its edge gleamed coldly. His grandmother had said it could be used to chop firewood for self-defense in case he encountered stray dogs or got lost. He glanced at the man guarding the truck beside him, who was leaning against the side of the truck, yawning and smoking a pungent pipe. Smoke rings drifted through the truck bed. The man clearly didn't take these teenagers seriously, only occasionally glancing around as if they were a flock of sheep that wouldn't run away.

Banggeng took a deep breath, clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white. Run, he had to run. No matter what lay ahead—wild beasts in the forest, the disorientation of being lost, or the scolding and beatings after being caught—it was all better than spending his life in that poor mountain village. The shadows of the trees outside the car window rushed past, like countless hands reaching towards the sky. His heart pounded like a drum, his eardrums buzzed, and his eyes gleamed with a mixture of fear and excitement—his escape had only just begun.

Qin Huairu stood at the courtyard gate, her gaze fixed on Banggeng and Jia Zhangshi. Her heart skipped a beat—the unspoken understanding and secretive exchange between the grandmother and grandson just now clearly hinted at something! She opened her mouth to ask, but swallowed the words back. Jia Zhangshi was never one to give the truth. She could only watch helplessly as two cadres pushed Banggeng into the green pickup truck. The truck bed was painted with striking red slogans, glaringly obvious in the dim sunlight.

Several teenagers were already standing in the back of the truck, all children from various families in the compound who were going to the countryside. Bang Geng squeezed in the middle, his back ramrod straight, but he couldn't hide his bewilderment and helplessness. Each of them hung their heads, like eggplants hit by frost, listless. Even Yan Jiefang, who was usually the most talkative, was now just staring blankly at the toes of his worn-out shoes.