While Du Man’s parents retired to their room for an afternoon nap, all four young people crowded into Du Man’s room—the only one upstairs with air conditioning.

They wanted to play cards but worried about disturbing the elderly couple, so Jing Qichi suggested playing something quieter. But what game was quiet? Song Cong, remembering how he had written characters at the dining table earlier, had a sudden inspiration: “One person says a pinyin syllable without tones, and we all take turns writing Chinese characters for it. The winner gets red envelopes—first one out pays fifteen yuan, middle one pays ten, last one eliminated pays five.”

Huan Er, weakest in Chinese, immediately objected, “You’re deliberately targeting me, aren’t you?”

“He’s targeting both of us,” Jing Qichi glanced at the pair opposite them. “How can those of us who use computers all day compete with people who write medical records?”

“Let’s try it—I often forget how to write characters now too,” Du Man laughed, taking a stack of A4 paper from the bookshelf. “At worst, the winner can buy drinks tonight, no refunds for excess, no supplements if short.”

“That works,” Huan Er brightened up, nudging Jing Qichi, “You can drink anyway.”

“I’ll give an example,” Song Cong said, then glancing up at the blue-covered People’s Medical Publishing House books on the shelf, smiled and said, “Let’s use XUE.” He wrote the character “学” (study) on the paper.

“We don’t need to match syllables, right?” Huan Er asked while writing “雪” (snow).

Jing Qichi quickly followed with “血” (blood).

Du Man put down her prepared “薛” (a surname).

“See, isn’t this simple?” Song Cong smiled and wrote “靴” (boot).

“Cave’s ‘xue’,” Huan Er kept up.

It got harder as they progressed, with common characters all used up. Jing Qichi was the first to surrender. Putting down his pen, he conceded, “Old Song, how can this game you invented even qualify as a game? It’s basically a Chinese exam.”

Song Cong chuckled, “Go home and reflect on your knowledge base.”

Unsurprisingly, Song Cong won the first round decisively.

In fact, no matter who gave the syllable or what sound it was, he was like a walking xinhua dictionary, continuously producing characters. When everyone else had exhausted their options and reached their wit’s end, he could still casually twirl his pen before writing an obscure character that would need verification. In one round, Du Man deliberately chose a difficult “SUO,” and Huan Er, benefiting from the turn order, got to compete with Song Cong for a while. Finally thinking of “carboxyl,” she got stuck unable to write the right radical, something looking wrong no matter how she viewed it. After scribbling on the paper for a long time, she threw down her pen and wrote “COOH,” declaring, “This is it, this is the international carboxyl.”

This ingenious move of bringing out chemical formulas made everyone laugh heartily. Song Cong, laughing while putting down his pen, said, “I’ll let you win this round.”

That expression clearly said “never mind, I’ll let you have it”—more irritating than if he’d written something.

When it was Huan Er’s turn to give a syllable, she deliberately chose mischievously: “MAN,” writing “慢” (slow) on the paper.

Jing Qichi wrote “满” (full), Du Man wrote “瞒” (conceal), Song Cong wrote “蔓” (vine)—everyone tacitly avoided that particular character—the “漫” in Du Man’s name.

Including the person herself.

Huan Er dropped out, Jing Qichi dropped out, leaving only two players in the game.

Du Man still hadn’t written it.

Even though almost all the common characters for this sound had been used.

Even though they knew Song Cong might have other options prepared, or the game might end before that character would appear.

Everyone could see Du Man had no more characters to write.

It was Song Cong’s turn—any character would make him the winner.

The sun was no longer as fierce as at noon, and the air-conditioned room was even a bit cool.

Song Cong held the pen between his index and middle fingers, thumb gripping it, and clearly wrote the character “漫” on the paper.

He wasn’t finished. Right next to that character, Song Cong continued.

He wrote: 漫漫 (Man Man).

His handwriting was, as always, neat and strong.

“I won, right?” Song Cong put down his pen and smiled at Du Man.

Man Man.

The young woman’s heart skipped a beat.

“You won,” Du Man told him, feeling her own accelerating heartbeat.

It was a kind of probe, half-true and half-playful, both the process and the result.

The two wingmen secretly high-fived under the table. Song Cong smiled while twirling his pen, head lowered, while Du Man gathered up the written papers as if to cover her reaction. Seeing neither intended to continue, Huan Er quickly said, “No need to calculate the results—Song Cong, you’re buying drinks for everyone tonight.”

Let those gradually surfacing feelings remain with the parties involved.

“No problem,” Song Cong readily agreed.

As evening approached, Du Man had planned to take her friends to see the fields, but it happened that watermelon wholesalers had come to the village. Huan Er suggested waiting until after dinner. After all, while the fields were just something novel and interesting for them to see, for Du Man’s parents it was real business and livelihood—following along would only get in the way.

“Want to see the chicken farm?” Du Man pointed ahead. “Aunt Li has over a thousand chickens, it’s quite spectacular.”

“I do!” Huan Er raised her hand high.

Jing Qichi ruffled her hair, “Don’t you dare think about stealing chickens for your experiments.”

“Tch,” the three medical professionals spoke in unison, with Song Cong adding, “Amateur.”

Jing Qichi rolled his eyes—in this group, sorted by attributes, he really would be isolated.

Some friends he’d chosen.

For the three visitors, this was their first time seeing a chicken farm of this scale. Under the large shelter, organized like supermarket shelves row after row, each column divided into three levels full of clucking sounds, stretching as far as the eye could see. Du Man watched their eyes grow wide, her voice carrying a hint of pride, “Impressive, isn’t it?”

Aunt Li teased her, “Look who’s talking—you were just like them your first time here.”

Du Man had lived in Tianhe since she could remember; if her parents hadn’t moved to the countryside, she wouldn’t have had the chance to experience this kind of life either.

“Been here so long, it’s become natural,” Du Man answered with a smile.

“It’s just you—what other young person would want to move to the countryside?” Aunt Li said, “You all play, I’ll go check over there.”

Once the owner left, Huan Er quietly asked Du Man, “Can we steal an egg?”

One shouldn’t matter much—at worst they could repay Aunt Li with a watermelon.

Du Man asked with an amused tone, “What for?”

“Qichi, Jing Qichi!” Huan Er waved at the man standing far away. “Come here!”

“Too noisy,” Jing Qichi answered from the shelter’s entrance. It wasn’t exactly fear—he just hadn’t expected such a magnificent scene, and those clucking sounds and pointed beaks gave him goosebumps.

Ah, so that’s where goosebumps came from.

Huan Er went to pull him, “Try getting an egg.”

“No. Not good.”

“Just try,” Huan Er pulled his arm inward, thoroughly amused inside. This fearless guy actually had a weak spot here.

“Old Song, save me!” Jing Qichi wailed.

“Good luck,” Song Cong exchanged a look with Du Man, and they both grinned before quickly moving to another row.

“You heartless people!” Jing Qichi’s cries echoed in the shelter.

After creating some distance, Song Cong stopped and looked at the young woman beside him, saying, “I actually hadn’t expected you to adapt so well.”

“You mean to this place?”

“Yes.”

She seemed completely unbothered, whether it was the streets not yet paved with asphalt, the shopping centers requiring a drive to reach, or telling friends about how happy her parents were that watermelon prices had risen by a few cents this year. Moving from the countryside to a city of high-rises wasn’t difficult, but coming back indeed required courage.

Du Man was briefly silent, “A few years ago, like in high school or just starting university, if my parents had said they wanted to move here, I might have felt somewhat… you know.”

Song Cong nodded, “Resistant.”

“Mm.” Du Man sniffed, lowering her voice, “Smelly, isn’t it?”

“A bit,” Song Cong smiled, speaking honestly.

It would be strange if a chicken farm didn’t smell.

Du Man also smiled, “Good thing it wasn’t then. You know, Song Cong, during those days when my father was in the hospital, I had only one thought in my mind—as long as he got better, I would trade anything for it, no matter what.”

Song Cong looked at her profile, thinking, I know.

Because I’ve had moments like that too, helpless and lost, willing to give everything to ensure someone’s wellbeing.

Du Man turned to look at him, through his glasses, her dark brown eyes twinkling.

“Hey,” she tugged at his clothes, “What are you thinking about?”

Those eyes were smiling.

Life, ah, has its own quirky romance.

In this tall-roofed chicken farm, Song Cong realized he had fallen for someone.

Love that made him want to recklessly give her happiness had arrived in this moment.

Jing Qichi returned to the Du household holding Huan Er’s hand with one hand and two eggs with the other.

Seeing this, Mother Du laughed heartily, “Perfect, we have some green onions—we can add another dish tonight.”

“Auntie, you don’t know how funny it was,” Huan Er pointed at the still-terrified young man. “This guy over 1.8 meters tall, his face went white in the chicken coop.”

“I wasn’t scared, I just didn’t like the noise,” Jing Qichi insisted stubbornly. Those two eggs had truly been hard-won—the first one was retrieved with Huan Er guiding his hand, and the second he got by closing his eyes, steeling his nerves, and going by feel.

He couldn’t even explain why he broke into a cold sweat.

“Oh!” Mother Du cracked the eggs into a bowl and looked at them with surprise and delight, “Both double-yolked!”

Du Man leaned over to look, exclaiming “Wow!” “Huan Er, your luck is incredible!”

The hero waved it off casually, “No big deal, stick with me for future good times.”

Mother Du noticed Song Cong’s silence and asked while beating the eggs with chopsticks, “Little Song, are you uncomfortable here?”

“No,” Song Cong, preoccupied with other thoughts, hurriedly answered, “I’m comfortable, it’s really nice.”

Mother Du smiled, “Oh, there’s nothing particularly nice about the countryside.”

Song Cong didn’t know how to respond.

“Mom,” Du Man looked at him, her cheeks flushing, “Stop questioning him.”

“Yes,” Song Cong rushed to add, “Mom, don’t ask anymore.”

The atmosphere suddenly froze.

Mother Du stopped beating the eggs, Huan Er and Qichi’s expressions went blank, while Du Man stared at the person in question with her mouth open.

The clever Song Cong had just done something incredibly foolish.

Even more foolishly, faced with various examining looks, his ears turned red and he became flustered.

Jing Qichi was the first to laugh, patting his friend’s shoulder like he was an idiot, “Learned something new.”

“I’m sorry, Auntie,” Song Cong’s palms were sweaty as he corrected himself, red-faced.

Mother Du first looked at her blushing daughter, understanding most of it, then at the person who had made the “slip of the tongue,” her expression exceptionally gentle, “Alright, you all go set the table for dinner.”

“Okay,” Song Cong hurried away. Huan Er and Qichi exchanged a glance before following him.

Only the Du mother and daughter remained by the large pot.

Du Man asked, “Where’s Dad?”

“Still not finished collecting, he’ll be back soon.” Mother Du winked at her daughter, “Him?”

“Mm.”

“Daughters really do grow up and leave,” Mother Du added oil to the pot, “Be good, okay?”

“Don’t worry,” Du Man hugged her mother in the hot steam, repeating those words, “Don’t worry.”