After that day, I didn’t see Gan Ling for a long time.
After drinking, no matter what I said, I’d forget seventy percent of it upon waking up. Gan Ling had slipped away without a trace, and it was hard to run into her by chance. With three hundred thousand people in Neng County, hiding wasn’t exactly difficult.
I finally sealed up the gift box. I still hadn’t decided on a gift, and it was too late to buy Judy now, so in the end, I just added a blank postcard with a Totoro pattern.
As per the usual routine, I would have gone to Zheng Ningning’s grandma’s house first, but upon learning the old lady had passed away, I headed straight to the graveyard.
At the edge of the county town, after riding past a stretch of bulging dirt slopes—like the earth had gotten mosquito bites, slightly swollen and barren, with nothing growing—a cement road clung to the slopes like a ribbon flowing downward. I rode upstream against it, the electric bike creaking as the mudguard Gan Ling had kicked loose rattled in the wind like grinding teeth.
After descending the slope and skirting a weathered, illegible stone stele, I reached a flat dirt road.
On either side of the dirt road stretched a vast field of graves like dense clusters of mosquito bites. Weeds poked densely through cracks in the ground along the sides, purslane jostling with cowherb in crowded growth. It was early morning, and no one had come to pay respects yet. I parked the electric bike by the roadside, hugged the gift box, and grabbed a pair of white cotton gloves with rubberized fingertips from under the seat, tucking them into my pocket.
Zheng Ningning’s small grave mound was deep inside. As I walked over, who knew how many spirits I’d offended. Some graves were overgrown with weeds, others tamped firm with cement, gleaming with a metallic grayish-white.
Zheng Ningning’s grave was covered in field bindweed and watercress. A small dirt mound stood before a cement stele inscribed: My daughter Zheng Ningning, born on the eighth day of the fourth lunar month in the year Wu Zi, died on the eighteenth day of the fourth lunar month in the year Yi Wei.
I set down the gift box, put on the gloves, and started weeding the grave. Some family must have gotten bored during a visit and shoveled it with an iron spade—there was a clear gash on the mound like a rift valley, damp inside where purslane had sprouted in the cracks.
I pulled all the weeds, leaving the mound bald like a mother hen plucked in boiling water, with fuzzy patches of scars. I mounded the soil back up, patted it down, kicked the weeds into the sunlight—they’d dry out on their own under the sun.
Before Zheng Ningning’s grave, I heard nothing in response but dead silence, an utter void. Even imagining her spirit in heaven watching me felt like a luxury. I had nothing to say. I opened the gift box and took out the items one by one. Knowing there was no audience below, I still put on a show for the tombstone. Afterward, I packed them back, resealed the box, and for the loose end of the ribbon, tucked a tissue underneath to catch the spark. With a click, I lit the lighter.
A small flame rose flickering before me. I squatted nearby, a bit farther off. The sweat on my face dried from the heat, only to well up again impatiently.
I casually plucked some purslane from the weed pile, using its reddish stem to pry off a layer and fashion a necklace. I snapped the grass into two unbroken ellipses, cool and smooth against my wrists, with two leaves left as decoration.
Finally, I tossed the necklace into the fire, watching it burn to ash until not a single ember remained.
The sun had risen, scorching my back like a giant electric iron, heat rolling in waves. I finally stood, rolling up the soiled white gloves like a pair of socks.
Offending more spirits along the path, I made it back to the electric bike and opened the basket to toss in the gloves.
There was a black plastic bag in the basket now. Peering inside, I found five or six green corn cobs with their tassels still on!
There was a huge cornfield on the other side of the slope I’d come from. Though it wasn’t yet corn-picking season, some varieties were eaten tender, not tough, so folks started hiring workers to pick them bit by bit around this time.
But which worker would have the free time to stuff corn into the basket of a lone electric bike out here in the graveyard? It couldn’t be some kid stealing corn and strategically stashing it in my bike, right?
No one around. Uneasy, I lifted the bag and spotted some moist soil at the bottom.
I got on the bike, crested the slope, and paused when passing the cornfield. I saw a few hired workers weaving through, all heading uniformly toward the houses over there. At this hour, the boss should be providing a meal. The cornfield rustled as if from those few inner stalks swaying, like a breeze passing through, then stilled.
I’d meant to leave right away, but suddenly spotted a broken red brick on the field ridge weighing down a stack of black plastic bags to keep them from blowing away, plus a pile of woven plastic sacks.
I parked the electric bike by the road again and walked into the cornfield.
Tattered plastic mulch from seedling beds poked raggedly from the soil, beaded with dew. The corn grew thick and dense, leaves broad and edged like blades—had to step carefully. Scattered gloves lay along the ridges. Deeper in stood two racks for holding woven bags, only half full, with plastic twine coiled on the iron frames and a rusty pair of shears hanging from one.
I kept walking. This cornfield was vast, overgrown thicker than most. Sunlight couldn’t penetrate to the ground, but heat seeped through the leaves like a natural plastic greenhouse, nurturing clumps of weeds under the mulch. It grew stiflingly humid, though occasional mystery breezes dispersed the stuffiness with a cool touch.
A few dozen steps later, I finally heard women’s voices from a meal, smelled the aroma of stewed veggies—definitely pork belly, potatoes and pickled cabbage, steaming mantou buns plump, round, pure white, and flawless.
Only then did I snap back to reality.
What was I doing, barging into a cornfield like this? Was I here to buy tender corn? To find the owner of that black plastic bag of corn? But by Neng County custom, four or five cobs like that were laughable—the owner would mock me outright, wave a hand: “That few? Not even worth stealing. Here, let me snap some more for you to take home!”
I’d charged in with fanfare, clothes soaked by overnight dew and sweat, steamed dizzy by the heat, all for these few ears of corn?
But it felt like intuition—over one slope, bagging tasseled corn and planting it in my bike basket had to be deliberate.
The answer revealed itself at once.
A couple steps later, I spotted Gan Ling. She sat alone, bowl in hand, drinking water, another holding a cornstalk.
My movements couldn’t escape her notice. By the time I saw her, she’d already glanced over, slowly lowering her head to drink, nibbling the stalk, sucking the juice, then tossing it aside.
No beating around the bush from me: “The corn—you left it for me?”
Gan Ling drained her bowl, set it aside, arms draped over her knees. The black hoodie was gone, replaced by a white tank top soaked with sweat on the back. I saw her black sports bra underneath, sweat trickling from the nape, matting the stray hairs at the back of her head.
“I saw you head to the graveyard.” Gan Ling’s voice was hoarse. She slowly wiped the sweat from her neck with her hand, eyes looking away.
“You’re working here?”
“One hundred a day, two days only. Done after today.”
“Why the corn? New strategy? Doing good deeds anonymously—you think that’ll…” I started to mock, but Gan Ling just turned her head calmly, indifferently, like I was speaking some alien tongue she couldn’t understand.
I could only blurt hastily: “No matter what you do, I won’t say anything.”
Gan Ling stood, abruptly snapped a corn ear at the waist, roughly stripped the leaves leaving the stalk, broke it in two, peeled the husk to reveal the milky kernels.
“Folks here say hundreds of funerals pass through here a year. She wouldn’t remember something from seven years ago anyway. I asked the neighbors around Plum Kindergarten, house by house. Went to the police station, asked neighbors, staked out No. 2 Middle, No. 3, No. 5—trying to find Ningning’s old classmates… It’s like you’re the only one left in the world besides me who even remembers there was once a kid named Zheng Ningning…”
Maybe because of the sweltering heat, Gan Ling’s words seemed sun-melted, a bit soft, a bit timid.
But that was probably my illusion. Soon her tone hardened. She thrust the cornstalk at me without ceremony, making me chew it to taste the sweet juice inside. I gripped it without moving. Gan Ling said: “At this point, it’s my own fault. I deserve it. But I won’t give up. I’ll try other ways.”
“I won’t tell you anything.” At a loss, I clung to my bottom line like a shield against all attacks.
“I’m not in a rush. You’ll talk eventually.”
I’d thought Gan Ling might be feigning helplessness before me, but no—she was still tough, just rephrasing to show resolve. Ultimately, she wanted any scrap of info on the killer from my mouth. On her path of vengeance against the murderer, I was the unavoidable starter village, and she was determined to grind me down.
I dropped the cornstalk and turned to leave, head low to dodge the corn leaves slicing my cheeks and eyes. My clothes rustled against them. Those sounds couldn’t drown Gan Ling’s low voice: “Teacher Xiao Jiang, I want to find the killer. There are plenty of ways—like getting Ningning’s classmates’ parents’ numbers from you, then threatening the kids. The ones involved must remember something…”
