Edward Baldwin's mother was named Grace Miller, a name shared by many people of that era.

　　“What do you mean, eating with your son?” came Grace Miller’s surprised voice over the phone. “Your son just got home, where did you run off to? Hurry back for dinner.”

　　“What? What did you say?” George Baldwin was breathing heavily, eyes wide, almost shouting.

　　“Are you getting senile? The two of us are waiting for you to come home for dinner, hurry up and come back.”

　　“Our son? Where’s our son? I want to talk to him!”

　　“What’s wrong with you today, George Baldwin?” Grace Miller asked in confusion.

　　“Don’t worry about what’s wrong with me today!” George Baldwin shouted into the phone, “Give the phone to our son right now, let me talk to him!”

　　Wasn’t his son kidnapped? How could he be home? George Baldwin couldn’t figure it out—he needed to hear his son’s voice to be sure, to believe it.

　　After a moment, George Baldwin clearly heard his son’s timid voice: “Dad, come home for dinner, I’m hungry.”

　　Hearing that familiar voice, tears streamed down George Baldwin’s face, and then he roared, “Where did you go! You little brat, where did you run off to? All you do all day is eat, eat, eat—one of these days I’m going to beat you to death!”

　　On the other end, Edward Baldwin immediately burst into tears, but in front of his father he didn’t dare cry out loud, only stifled sobs escaped him.

　　“He’s been found, he’s at home!” George Baldwin hung up and shouted loudly.

　　Up on the mountain, Henry Grant got the news, immediately came down, and together with George Baldwin rushed madly home by car.

　　All the way, George Baldwin kept smoking, his face shifting between anger and relief. His son was home, yes, he hadn’t misheard, that was his son’s voice. But how did he get home, how exactly did he get home?

　　With a bang, the door of their house was flung open, and the skinny Edward Baldwin was sitting properly at the dining table in the main room.

　　When Edward Baldwin saw his father walk in, his face filled with fear, he stood up straight, his small body trembling uncontrollably.

　　Seeing his son safe and sound, the weight in George Baldwin’s heart finally lifted. But what followed was anger, overwhelming anger.

　　“Speak! Where did you go!” George Baldwin roared at Edward Baldwin like a wild beast, raising his right hand to strike.

　　With a thud, Edward Baldwin was so frightened he fell straight to the ground, propping himself up with both hands, scrambling backward until he was under the table, then burst into loud sobs: “Dad, wuwuwu… please don’t hit me, I won’t run off again, never again, wuwuwu…”

　　In front of George Baldwin, Edward Baldwin was even more timid than a mouse. What he feared most was his father hitting him, feared his father would beat him to death.

　　“George Baldwin, what on earth are you doing!” Grace Miller pulled her loudly crying son out from under the table and held him tightly, shouting at George Baldwin, “If you dare lay a finger on our son today, I’ll die with you!”

　　Seeing his wife like a tigress protecting her cub, George Baldwin’s raised right hand froze in midair, then slowly lowered. The rage on his face faded, replaced by kindness and gentleness.

　　“Hehe, it’s fine, it’s fine, hehe.” George Baldwin smiled, reaching out to take his son from his wife’s arms.

　　But Grace Miller took a big step back, watching George Baldwin warily.

　　“Dad, wuwuwu…” Edward Baldwin clung tightly to his mother’s neck with one hand, crying as he pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and handed it to George Baldwin.

　　George Baldwin was stunned, and so was Henry Grant, who had just finished reporting to his superiors.

　　“Where did you get the cigarettes?” George Baldwin looked at Edward Baldwin and asked gently.

　　“I bought them for you, wuwuwu… I saw you, your cigarettes were, were all gone, wuwu…” Edward Baldwin sobbed, “I used the little pig, little piggy bank money… I also bought Wangwang rice crackers. Da-dad… wuwuwu… I won’t do it again, please don’t beat me to death, wuwuwu…”

　　Hearing this, George Baldwin slammed his fist on the table, then squatted down, holding his head and bawling.

　　Holding the child, Grace Miller also cried, the three of them sobbing together.

　　Standing there, Henry Grant didn’t know what to feel. He knew everything about three generations of the Xiao family, and even more about what kind of iron-blooded man George Baldwin had been on the battlefield. But today, he had knelt, cried, and begged.

　　“Old Xiao, it’s all right now, it’s all over.” Henry Grant patted George Baldwin’s shaking shoulder, and said to Grace Miller, “Sister-in-law, Old Xiao saw some things today, his emotions are a bit unstable. It’s fine, it’s fine.”

　　Grace Miller wiped her tears and nodded. She didn’t know what had happened today, and in fact, Old Xiao’s mood had been off these past two years, even a bit schizophrenic.

　　Edward Baldwin looked at Henry Grant’s military uniform with tear-filled eyes, reached toward the table with his right hand, grabbed a piece of meat and quickly stuffed it into his mouth, then looked fearfully at his weeping father.

　　“The child is hungry, let him eat first.” Henry Grant helped George Baldwin up and said with a smile, “Old Xiao, I’m hungry too. Now that I’m here, you have to at least feed me a meal, hehe.”