The storeroom used to be a feed shed. Three years ago a tile collapsed in a rainstorm, leaving a gap in the roof the size of a washbasin. Zhao Youcai always said he would have it fixed, but three years passed and it was never repaired. That said, no one ever came to take shelter in it, so the hole just yawned wider with each season, letting in wind, rain, and snow.

Now it held Liu Mancang.

He lay on the ground, the mud floor chill seeping into his bones. There was no dried straw to spread underneath. Damp and dark, scraps of hay mixed with mouse droppings stuck to his hair. His hands were tied behind his back with hemp rope, the rough fibers eating into his wrists, and every time he moved, the rope bit deeper. At first he tried struggling, but the more he moved, the tighter the knot bit into his flesh. So he stopped. Closed his eyes. Let the darkness settle on him. When a person can't see anything, all their other senses sharpen. He could hear the scratching of mice in the corner, the woodworm gnawing in the roof beam, the wind washing through the straw on the roof, and far away, the sound of a rooster crowing.

He thought about many things. How he had ended up in this position, and why it ended up this way.

Liu Mancang was from a different village. His family fell apart when he was young-his father died of tuberculosis, his mother remarried to a village thirty miles away with a new husband who refused to bring him along. From the age of fourteen, he lived by himself in a broken-down mud house. A boy without a home, he grew into a man without a home. People gave him odd jobs, a meal here or there. He grew up haphazardly, without anyone to tell him how to behave or how to survive in this world. He was always a head shorter than other men his age, dark and skinny, hair like a bird's nest. At forty-two, no woman in any surrounding village would have him. When he walked the road, children threw stones at him. Adults looked at him the way they looked at a feral dog or a rotting tree stump-with an expression that said, "There's nothing to see here."

The only person in the village who had ever looked at him like an equal was Chen Xiulan.

He remembered it was last autumn. One day he was carrying fertilizer bags near the threshing ground, and Chen Xiulan was washing clothes at the well. The water pipe burst-the cold water drenched him, and his thin, patched jacket was soaked through. Chen Xiulan put down her washbasin, walked over, and handed him a towel. She did it naturally, without a word. After he wiped himself dry and handed the towel back, she said, "Go change your clothes. You'll catch a cold." Just five words. But no one had said that to him in thirty years.

From that day on, he remembered her. He started paying attention. He noticed she often went to the wheat field alone at dusk, always standing at the edge, looking toward the distant commune road, her silhouette faint in the twilight. He didn't know why she looked that way, but he began to look too, in the same direction, though he couldn't see anything special.

Then, half a month ago, she found him again.

She found him in the western wheat field, at dusk. He was patching the field ridge, and she came from behind, her shadow trickling over the wheat. He smelled the scent of her-soap, the jasmine-scented kind. She sat down in the furrow not far from him and said, "I need your help." She said she needed someone to help her with something that couldn't be said aloud. If it were exposed, neither of them would be able to stay in this village.

He asked her what it was.

She didn't say. She just said, "When the time comes, do as I say."

He agreed. He agreed because she was the only person who had ever looked at him like an equal. A person who lives in the darkness for too long will do anything for any sliver of light extended toward him. Even if it costs him his life.

He knew she was using him. But he didn't care. Because using him meant, at least, that he still had a use to someone.