Diao Zhuo responded absently, his attention entirely fixed on the flyer. He had specifically brought along several photographs that the police had provided to the rescue teams during the previous search operation — photos taken of Zhang Chenguang together with fellow travelers before he went missing. In one of them, in the background, Zhang Chenguang was holding a white insulated water bottle. From the pattern on it, it looked strikingly like the one in the lost-and-found notice.

The photo wasn’t very clear. Confirming whether the two were the same model required careful, focused attention.

“Smoking and drinking…” A hand came down heavily on his shoulder — a familiar female voice. “Living quite the comfortable little life, aren’t you?”

Ba Yunye?!

Diao Zhuo looked up. She was standing right in front of him, smiling, one hand tucked in the pocket of her softshell pants, head tilted slightly as she looked at him. He instinctively pressed the cigarette butt out against the leg of the table, stood up, and produced the classic question of a direct, unromantic man:

“What are you doing here?”

Ba Yunye pulled off her hat — stubborn as ever. “Thought you might not be able to handle things on your own. Came to give you a hand.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Handle who?”

She looked around the table. His friends — tall, short, stocky, lean — every one of them had a sharp, capable air about them. Birds of a feather, she thought.

Diao Zhuo reached out and flicked a finger across her nose tip. “With you here, I’m truly unable to handle things.”

Though inwardly, he was quietly delighted.

She clearly didn’t agree with that assessment. “Have I ever caused you trouble?”

The hippopotamus dragged two chairs over and they joined the table — a warm, lively gathering. Diao Zhuo took Ba Yunye’s hand: it was warm. She wasn’t cold — but he kept his fingers interlaced with hers and slipped them into his jacket pocket. Spending years behind a steering wheel, Ba Yunye’s hands weren’t particularly soft — the places that met the wheel most often had several calluses. Her palm pressed against his; his hand was rough, the web of his thumb and the roots of his fingers covered in thick calluses — hands weathered by wind and frost, warming each other.

She lowered her voice: “Diao Zhuo, I feel like you’re completely different with me now compared to when we first met.”

That was stating the obvious.

But he humbly asked anyway, “Different how?”

“Back then, eighty percent of the way you looked at me was pure murderous intent. Every time I got near you, I felt like you were either about to beat me up or drag me outside to hack me to pieces.” Ba Yunye raised her hand like a blade and made a chopping motion at her own neck.

“And the other twenty percent?”

“Twenty percent was watching the road while driving.”

Diao Zhuo was left without a word to say. So in his own eyes, all he did was drive and stare at her?

“And now?”

Ba Yunye’s hand in his pocket gave a suggestive little scratch against his palm, her eyes clearly asking — well, what do you think?

At that moment, a man and woman came in. The man spotted Pu Lan at once and strode over, calling to the woman: “Honey! Over here!”

Ba Yunye glanced over — by their clothes, they were the same couple the flyer boy had knocked over that afternoon. The man was good-looking: a short crew cut, fair complexion, with a bright and cheerful air about him. His wife was less striking than him — the kind of face that quickly disappeared into a crowd. Round face, soft and faint eyebrows, with a gentle, unassuming manner.

And where was the “leader” who’d come with them?

Pu Lan made introductions: this was Jiang Ao’hang and Fu Xingyue — a young married couple who had been assigned to the same climbing team as them. Their flight had been canceled, so they’d arrived a day later. Fu Xingyue explained that her father, Fu Yingtao, wasn’t feeling well and she hadn’t called him down for dinner — she’d pack up some hot noodles to bring back for him later.

It was evident that Jiang Ao’hang doted on his wife. He fussed over her constantly — fetched the thermos, brewed her a cup of jasmine tea — and soon the whole room was fragrant with it.

Fu Xingyue was quiet. After sitting down, she just played on her phone. Whether from altitude sickness or something else, her lips had turned pale; she was listless, too languid to bother with much of anything.

Pu Lan gently advised the two of them: if Fu Yingtao’s altitude sickness didn’t ease up, it wouldn’t be wise for him to attempt the summit. Fu Xingyue then slowly said: “Ever since my mother passed, he’s been quietly grieving. Coming out with us to climb and clear his head this time — it’s meant to help him relax a little. We’ll see how it goes. If he really can’t manage it, we’ll talk him out of it.”

Diao Zhuo accepted a cup of hot tea someone passed his way and held it out to Ba Yunye instead. “You came from Chengdu?”

She nodded. “My next group of clients is departing from Delingha — this is on the way.”

“The Qinghai-Tibet route.”

“Right.”

Diao Zhuo nodded and warned her: “Last year, that stretch around Tanggula was buried in snow — lots of vehicles got stuck for three or four days. The armed police handed out bottled water and bread along the road, and there were even rumors of people freezing to death. Ask around when you go, and keep your wits about you.”

Ba Yunye smiled down at the table. “That’s word for word what Long Ge told me before I left. Did you two plan this?” She noticed Diao Zhuo still had the lost-and-found notice in his hand and leaned over toward him. “What’s this — short on cash lately? I’ll take care of you — give you 3,000 a month.” As she said this, her hand wandered rather shamelessly to his thigh and gave it a squeeze — rock solid.

Da Qiang jumped in: “Five hundred is plenty — take him, take him.”

Dong Bai: “Five hundred? Fifty yuan and he’s yours.”

Diao Zhuo: “Fifty yuan is all it takes for you two to sell out a friend?”

Da Qiang: “Free — no charge whatsoever!”

Dong Bai: “Try before you buy — hundred-year unconditional return policy!”

Ba Yunye assumed an expression of cooperative willingness. “Well then, I won’t stand on ceremony!”

Pu Lan said: “Hard to say who it is — they’ve been looking for that thermos for months without finding it. Hiring that young man to hand out flyers costs a thousand a month.”

Diao Zhuo folded the flyer and tucked it into his softshell jacket pocket. “When did the distribution start?”

“Been going on for more than half a year — around May, I think…” Pu Lan tried to recall. “At first everyone was curious and asked around for a while. Word was it had been a birthday gift to the owner from his late mother. Since there was a reward, we’d keep an eye out whenever we led climbing groups. I’ll tell you something funny — one young fellow thought he’d be clever about it: he bought an identical one, deliberately put it on the ground and stomped on it, then bashed it against rocks until it was all dirty and beat-up, like something picked off the mountain. He contacted the person who lost it and mailed it to them. The owner wrote back and said that wasn’t it.”

Ba Yunye found this amusing. “Wasted three hundred yuan.”

Pu Lan, apparently still tickled by the story, covered his mouth and laughed for a good while. “And you know, this style of thermos is actually quite hard to find.”

The hippopotamus was unconvinced. “Just search on Taobao — there are loads.”

Pu Lan waved a hand. “Not this brand. It’s rare.”

Da Qiang didn’t believe him either and actually got out his phone to prove it. But search as he might, the first several pages turned up nothing matching. “Strange! Look — there are plenty of white thermoses, but there really isn’t one that matches the one in the notice!”

The hippopotamus remained skeptical: “Taobao has everything — filter by price…”

Diao Zhuo asked: “So how did that young fellow get hold of the matching one?”

Pu Lan scratched his head and thought for a moment. “I think he mentioned it was some clothing brand — not a thermos company specifically… and something about America…”

At that, Dong Bai grew genuinely interested. He picked up a flyer and studied it for a good while, then slapped his forehead and let out a knowing “Oh” — clearly struck by a flash of recognition. “I know this logo! We ran a few issues of ads for them in our magazine — a very niche American streetwear brand. Too niche, as it turned out — they tried to break into the Chinese market and failed. Pulled out and went back home after a few years. They also made accessories like shoes, hats, bags, and thermoses alongside their clothing — but if you’re importing through a personal shopper, the clothes are much easier to get your hands on.”

Ba Yunye sensed something off. “An elderly mother buys her son a thermos from an obscure American streetwear brand as a birthday gift. Ha — this old lady must be quite fashionable. More with the times than any of us.”

Pu Lan said breezily: “They hand out flyers every day — anyway, I’ve never heard of anyone actually finding it.”

Diao Zhuo was quiet, thinking: if he could confirm that the thermos Zhang Chenguang had carried up Yuzhu Peak was indeed this streetwear brand thermos, then the person behind the lost-and-found notice — and their motive — would be very much worth investigating.

“So you’re all here…” a voice suddenly came from behind them.

Everyone turned to look. An elderly man of short stature, wearing a black knitted hat, a cigarette between his fingers, came shuffling over. Jiang Ao’hang immediately sprang to his feet to offer his seat — and indeed, this was his father-in-law, Fu Yingtao.

Fu Yingtao pressed his lips together, as if he was not particularly pleased. He swept his gaze around the table, let it linger a moment on Diao Zhuo and Pu Lan, and then — with no better option — took the seat Jiang Ao’hang had vacated. He sat with a cold expression and downcast eyes, carrying a faint air of arrogance.

Everyone was rather baffled. Ba Yunye had dealt with all manner of people in her time; she looked at Fu Yingtao, then at Pu Lan and Diao Zhuo, and something clicked. The two of them happened to be sitting in the positions of host and honored guest at the round table, while Jiang Ao’hang and his wife had arrived late and naturally sat near the serving side. Whatever kind of “leader” Fu Yingtao actually was, a man who so thoroughly inhabited the role of authority would inevitably feel slighted by a seating arrangement like this.

They were all here for travel — whether you were a CEO or a watermelon vendor made no difference whatsoever. When people sat down to eat together, the point was to enjoy the company. No one stood on ceremony about seating.

“Why didn’t anyone come to get me?” Fu Yingtao asked in a flat, measured tone — his expression solemn and commanding.

“I knocked on your door, but there was no answer. I assumed you were asleep,” Jiang Ao’hang said with a smile, setting the ashtray in front of him.

“In the future, take note — my not answering doesn’t mean I’m not coming down.” Fu Yingtao said.

Jiang Ao’hang nodded rapidly. “Of course, of course.”

Fu Xingyue poured a cup of tea into a disposable cup and handed it to Fu Yingtao. Then he spoke again: “Has everything been ordered already?”

“I ordered,” Pu Lan said. By now he’d picked up on Fu Yingtao’s posturing, so he raised a hand to smooth things over. “Since I’m everyone’s mountain guide, it’s my job to make sure everyone eats well and gets their fill. This area is mostly Sichuan cuisine — afraid some people might not be used to it, so I ordered everything mild. If anyone wants spice, they also have chili paste.”

Fu Yingtao inclined his head with the air of a magistrate expecting deference. “Fine. I eat everything — I’m not particular. Just tell them to use less oil, keep the flavor light. I don’t like things too greasy or too salty.”

“No problem.” Pu Lan rose and flagged down a server to relay the request.

Ba Yunye — thoroughly familiar with how these things worked — curved her lips with quiet amusement. Pu Lan’s little gesture was entirely for Fu Yingtao’s benefit. The restaurants along this stretch didn’t do light oil or light salt; whether you said anything or not, they’d cook it exactly the same way as always.

Jiang Ao’hang was the animated type — he asked each person about their hometown and occupation, and managed to say something flattering about almost everyone. Diao Zhuo’s group of friends were all childhood companions — one a doctor, one a fitness coach, one a magazine editor. When it came to Ba Yunye and the hippopotamus, they casually claimed to be from Lhasa and working as tour guides. From Fu Yingtao’s expression, none of the occupations except “doctor” earned a second glance from him. He remained consistently distant, a faint air of superiority in his eyes the whole time. No wonder people said that in the eyes of that generation, only teachers, doctors, and civil servants counted as proper jobs — everyone else was an unemployed drifter in disguise.

Ba Yunye wondered privately — was Old Fu actually some impressively high-ranking official?

From Jiang Ao’hang’s self-introduction, everyone learned that he and Fu Xingyue were from the same state-owned enterprise, and that Fu Yingtao was the Deputy General Manager — senior leadership. His annual salary was far higher than the others at the table who were still early in their careers. Once that was said, people couldn’t help speculating whether Jiang Ao’hang’s marriage to Fu Xingyue had reasons beyond mutual affection. It was the kind of speculation that probably circulated quite a bit within their company too.

A few minutes after Pu Lan’s “instructions,” the entire table of dishes arrived. Not a single one — aside from the fruit platter — was anything but greasy. Pu Lan explained cheerfully: “Everyone try to eat plenty of meat and drink plenty of water — that’s the best way to acclimatize.”

Once the food arrived, no one cared about propriety. Chopsticks flew out — this one snagged a piece of braised spare rib, that one grabbed a few slices of twice-cooked pork. Bottles were cracked open around the table and the drinking began. Ba Yunye glanced over at Fu Yingtao: he pressed out his cigarette and sat stiffly, clearly very displeased. She could well imagine that at his usual banquets, no one dared to touch their chopsticks until he moved his first.

What’s so great about that? Ba Yunye thought with quiet disdain.

Every person’s profession is a kind of script. Many who play the role of the “successful figure” in that script can never quite step out of character — not even during the eight hours when they’re off the clock. Whenever Ba Yunye took clients out for their first meal, she’d always emphasize one thing: when you’re out enjoying yourself, set aside who you are back home. Eat what you want, drink what you want — the only thing that matters is having a good time.

By her observation, Jiang Ao’hang and Fu Xingyue were reasonably easy to get along with — they didn’t eat much, but what they ate they seemed to genuinely enjoy. Fu Yingtao had been in a poor mood from the start, and halfway through the meal he went out and brought everything back up. In the end, they had no choice but to ask the kitchen to make him a plain bowl of noodles in clear broth to take back to his room to eat slowly.