Zong Hang sat in the corner of the room all night.
The room was built over water, with a floor made of nailed wooden planks. Many joints were misaligned, and through these gaps of varying sizes, he could see the black, glossy water surface below.
It had rained for half the night, and the water level seemed to have risen slightly. As dawn approached, he spat through the gap in front of him.
The saliva mixed with blood was thick and sticky, carrying the foul taste of being trapped in his mouth all night. It fell precisely through the gap and floated on the water below, neither sinking nor drifting away, like a nail stuck in his vision, as if deliberately nauseating him.
His tongue tried to reach toward the back of his mouth, but the slightest movement caused such pain that he hissed and his whole face contorted.
He didn’t need to feel it to know there was a missing tooth there, replaced by a bloody cavity.
Yesterday, after seeing Old Ma, he was initially angry, then suddenly overjoyed when he came to his senses.
It was all a big mistake – they had grabbed the wrong person. His father was fine, his whole family was fine. He had just panicked needlessly: hadn’t Zong Bisheng called him from China just yesterday? What grudge could be so great to warrant an international kidnapping?
Zong Hang clenched his fists, pounding on the wooden door and walls, shouting: “Is anyone there? This is a misunderstanding, someone come to listen to me!”
The men who had bound him had long since left after dumping him there.
But Zong Hang grew increasingly frantic, his forehead breaking out in sweat: even if it was a mistake, it had been almost a day since his kidnapping. Long Song must have reported it to the police, and Zong Bisheng had probably been alerted – everything must be in chaos both at home and abroad.
In his anger and anxiety, he kicked the door violently.
Old Ma watched him from the side, hesitating several times before stammering: “Um…”
He wanted to warn Zong Hang that the person guarding this room was a nearly 200-pound fat man who loved drinking, was prone to rage, and showed no restraint when beating people.
Zong Hang roared: “Shut the fuck up!”
He had grown to hate Old Ma intensely.
He pounded and smashed with all his might until his voice grew hoarse: “Someone come here! Let’s clear things up! It’s not me! I’m not surnamed Ma…”
There was the sound of a lock turning in the door.
Zong Hang perked up, about to step forward when the door was kicked open.
The stench of alcohol hit him as a fat man built like an iron tower stood in the doorway, holding a pair of pliers.
It was these pliers that had pulled out his tooth.
During the extraction, Zong Hang had struggled fiercely, screaming until his throat was raw, convulsing in pain, thinking he would die. When Old Ma tried to help, the fat man slapped him to the ground, and he couldn’t get up for a long time.
Then the fat man had dangled the bloody tooth in front of him with the pliers, made a shushing sound, and said: “Silence.”
…
After that, Zong Hang didn’t speak a word. He felt perhaps he had gone numb from the pain, or suspected that maybe a nerve from his tooth socket connected directly to his brain, and pulling the tooth had damaged part of his brain, leaving him in this daze.
He also realized that the two Cambodians who had apologized to him in the Chinese restaurant were probably fake – because if they had been real, none of this would have happened.
Old Ma came over wringing his hands to apologize: “You see, I don’t know how they ended up grabbing you either…”
Zong Hang wanted to sneer, but his face wouldn’t cooperate and no sound came out, just two puffs of air from his nose.
Why did they grab me? Don’t you know exactly why?
Old Ma took the hint and sheepishly walked away, though, in the small room, he could only retreat to huddle in a corner.
The sky brightened a bit more, and someone opened the door to throw in food. The metal tray crashed to the ground with a clang, its two shallow metal bowls rattling, spilling most of the soup.
The bowls contained soup-soaked rice that looked like dog food.
Zong Hang vowed not to eat it – it looked filthy and must be crawling with bacteria.
So he continued sitting there, the right side of his face swollen like an over-proofed steamed bun, with a glossy sheen to the swelling.
Old Ma was startled awake by the noise. Yawning, he went to a large gap in the floor to urinate.
The urine’s ammonia smell carried that distinct elderly odor that only came with age. Zong Hang turned away in disgust.
He had only one thought now: to meet with the leader here as soon as possible, talk things through, and explain everything clearly. Even if it cost some money, he needed to leave this place quickly – it was no place for humans.
In the afternoon, there was finally movement outside.
First came the sound of multiple footsteps mixed with murmuring voices. As they got closer, Zong Hang recognized one voice as that of the melon-splitter, speaking carefully and ingratiatingly. Though the other voice only made “mm” and “ah” sounds, it was arrogant.
This must be the leader. Zong Hang’s eyes gradually brightened. When the lock clicked, he was poised and ready, his throat dries with tension.
Old Ma watched him with a complex expression.
As soon as the door opened, Zong Hang lunged forward. The lead person was startled and instinctively stepped back. Two others rushed in, grabbing Zong Hang from both sides, throwing him to the ground, and starting to beat him.
Zong Hang paid no attention to the beating, protecting his head and face with his arms while continuing to shout desperately. The explanation he had prepared came out clearer than ever: his name, place of origin, parents, passport number, ID number, where he was staying in Siem Reap, who could verify his identity…
Even while being beaten, he had to seize this opportunity to explain everything clearly.
During the commotion, he heard the man say: “Stop beating him for now.”
Hope rose in Zong Hang’s heart. He turned over and crawled a few steps toward the man on all fours, his voice hoarse: “Everything I’m saying is true. You can check – call the Angkor Grand Hotel, ask anyone, all the staff know me.”
Only then did he see the man’s appearance.
He was Thai, very refined, slightly chubby, cultured-looking, wearing gold-rimmed glasses, with an almost kind expression.
He looked at the melon-splitter and said in Chinese: “Dan Zai, what’s going on?”
Dan Zai stammered: “Brother Chai, I… I’m not quite sure. When we arrived, Ah Ji saw this kid drinking and told us he was Ma Yuefei’s son, certain. I thought one more would be good, so… we brought him along.”
Brother Chai frowned and said he remembered Ma You only had a father and hadn’t heard of any siblings.
Zong Hang saw an opening and grew excited, his cheeks flushing: “Really, just make one phone call to the Angkor Grand Hotel, everything will be clear.”
Brother Chai spoke pleasantly: “Don’t worry about that, we’ll check. If it was a mistake, we’ll send you back.”
He then instructed Dan Zai: “Get him some water – with his face swollen like that, it must be hard to eat.”
They took Old Ma away for questioning. Zong Hang gratefully watched Brother Chai’s group leave, as if watching the saviors depart.
Afterward, the fat man brought him a bottle of mineral water, and his attitude seemingly improved.
It was a small bottle, covered in Khmer script he couldn’t read, though he recognized the brand – Angkor.
Zong Hang unscrewed the cap and took a small sip. The cool, pure water diluted the bloody taste in his mouth. He felt somewhat consoled, thinking there were still more good people than bad in the world – even kidnappers could be reasonable.
In the evening, Old Ma was brought back. He hadn’t suffered too badly, just some bruises on his face, but he seemed more energetic than ever, with a strange light in his eyes, unable to sit still, pacing around the room.
After walking for a while, he came over to talk to Zong Hang.
“Young Zong, they just questioned me too, and I told them you really have no connection to our family, it was truly a mistake.”
So what? Why this tone as if expecting thanks? Should I be grateful?
But his testimony was still helpful, so Zong Hang coldly grunted in acknowledgment.
Old Ma watched him for a while, then suddenly seemed to make some decision.
He swallowed and knelt, pressing himself to the floor to peer under the door gap repeatedly.
Before Zong Hang could make sense of this bizarre behavior, Old Ma had already moved to his ear, his voice and body trembling with nervousness.
He whispered: “Don’t trust them. Be prepared – they won’t let you go. It’s all lies.”
Zong Hang stared at him blankly, his mind somewhat dazed.
Old Ma licked his lips and glanced back at the wooden door: “They’re drug traffickers. Think about it – would drug traffickers let you go? Think about it.”
Zong Hang stammered: “But I have… have nothing to do with them.”
Old Ma said: “When they brought me back just now, I heard Dan Zai telling Brother Chai there’s news online already. Do you understand what that means? You’re a foreigner here, your kidnapping will alert the embassy, it’s already in the news. They’re in this business – would they send you back? Think about it, really think about it!”
His index finger was bent almost like the number “7” as he jabbed at his own temple forcefully.
Zong Hang’s mind was complete mush, desperately trying to find something to refute with: “But Brother Chai seemed very friendly and reasonable…”
Old Ma sneered, pointing at the injuries on his face: “He was very friendly when talking to me too, apologized when having people beat me, said sorry, shouldn’t hit an old man…”
A clanging sound came from far away, someone dropping a bowl perhaps. Old Ma startled like a frightened mouse and scurried away.
As far from Zong Hang as the room would allow.
Zong Hang sat there, his mind exploding one circle after another. He happened to look down and saw his fingertips reflexively flicking upward continuously, beyond his control.
Suddenly coming to his senses, he stumbled over to Old Ma, his voice a whisper: “Then… what should I do?”
He knew he should hate Old Ma, but there was no choice – hate wouldn’t solve his problems. In his current situation, with the whole world seemingly out to get him, Old Ma was the only one who might show him any kindness.
Old Ma’s gaze carried a trace of guilt as he looked at Zong Hang.
He said: “Well… no one can help you. You’ll have to figure it out yourself.”
Zong Hang felt an absurd sense of unreality. All his life, he’d mostly heard “do this, do that,” with everything laid out by others. No one had ever told him to “figure it out yourself,” especially not for such a serious life-or-death matter.
He asked numbly as if talking to himself: “Then what will they… do with me?”
Old Ma said he guessed there were two possibilities.
One was to make him “disappear” – they wouldn’t do it here in the settlement, but might take him by boat to the deep lake, tie him to rocks or iron bars, and sink him;
The second was to sell him as a slave laborer – in some parts of Southeast Asia, this practice still existed, selling people to plantations on small islands or fishing boats at sea, never to be heard from again, living like ghosts. With luck, they might be rescued after ten or twenty years; without luck, they worked until death, their bones buried under lush plantation crops or in the cold sea depths.
Zong Hang had never dreamed his life path would include such experiences and turns of fate.
Outside it gradually grew dark. He sat there in a daze, mumbling: “What am I going to do?”
He remembered that lecture on “How to Respond Intelligently to Kidnapping.”
At the end, the lecturer had spoken gravely: “But there are always exceptions. Some people, though smart, brave, and patient, still don’t survive kidnappings, unfortunately becoming victims.”
At the time, Zong Hang and some friends had called out from below: “Yeah, yeah, so what do you do then?”
The lecturer smiled and said: “Life is precious. For your life, no price is too high – fight with all your might until the last second. I don’t mean futile resistance – kidnapping is a process, and in this process, there must be the weakest point, which might appear at the beginning, middle, or even the final second.”
“Resisting at the wrong time will only make them more vigilant and control you more tightly and harshly, so preserve your strength, try to lull the kidnappers into complacency, and wait for this moment to appear. Even if you still can’t escape harm, at least you’ll have done everything possible for your life, with no regrets.”
…
Zong Hang lowered his head, sniffled, and secretly raised his hand to wipe away a tear.
Old Ma sighed too, thinking it might have been better not to tell him all this – walking toward doom in ignorance might be better than being filled with terror.
He wanted to change the subject and also explain the whole situation, so he voluntarily brought up his secret to Zong Hang.
“Remember how I printed those missing person notices, coming to look for my daughter Ma You?”
Zong Hang kept his head down without responding.
A dying man had no interest in others’ affairs.
He didn’t see the penetrating light flashing in Old Ma’s eyes in the surrounding darkness.
“That was just for show. I know she’s dead, died long ago.”