But the reason William Ford was willing to come and do this job was, first, to use the exhausting chores to pass the time, so he wouldn’t think too much, and second, entirely to train the abilities he lacked. He hoped to live as normally as possible. So, he completely ignored the loud, pained roars and urging of the The Boss, and continued at his own slow, methodical pace, chopping away, doing his best to make the pork ribs he cut smaller and more uniform in size. When Mr. Harris saw that his personal presence had no effect whatsoever, he finally flew into a rage, snuffed out his half-smoked cigarette, and shouted, “You dare slack off with me here? Hurry up!”

William Ford lowered his eyes and pretended not to hear, still chopping slowly, until suddenly his eyes lit up. He abruptly swung the cleaver and chopped the rib in his hand into dozens of pieces, then nodded in satisfaction. If you were to carefully weigh each piece on a spring scale, you’d find that although the ten or so pieces of rib varied in size and shape, their weights were astonishingly similar! This was the result of William Ford chopping ribs for half a year, five hours a day, every single day.

He was an extremely intelligent person. Although, due to genetic defects, he lacked some finesse in such small matters, as the saying goes, practice makes perfect. Every day, there were always a few moments of sudden inspiration, when he could, by instinct, chop the ribs into equal weights and sizes—much like how NBA players sometimes have those rare moments when every shot goes in. You could say that finding and enjoying this sense of ease had become one of the few pleasures left to William Ford, who had lost his purpose in life.

Prologue: A bleak and painful memory!

Chapter 3: Exposure

To be honest, chopping ribs was actually a rather unpleasant, dirty, and tiring job, and the pay was pitifully low. In fact, the reason William Ford could always do this work with a sense of enjoyment was precisely to experience that moment of inspiration, that sense of surpassing himself.

Mr. Harris watched William Ford’s slow movements and finally couldn’t stand it anymore. With a dark face since early morning, he was about to come over and teach this arrogant kid a lesson. But just as he took two steps forward, the chopping board rang out with a loud “smack,” sending bits of meat and blood flying, startling him into a quick retreat, afraid his Baoxibird shirt would get dirty. Just as he saw William Ford put down the cleaver and was about to muster the courage to scold him, the young man looked up, gazed at him calmly for a moment, then extended his knife-wielding hand and slowly unwrapped the blood-stained white cloth from it. Seeing this, Mr. Harris didn’t know why, but he suddenly calmed down, took a step back, swallowed hard, and forced himself to maintain his earlier bravado: “You—you’re not working, what do you want?”

William Ford said sincerely:

“My abilities are limited. It seems I can’t meet your requirements, so I’ll resign myself. I don’t need this month’s wages either.”

As he spoke, he rolled up his apron, ready to leave immediately. Mr. Harris felt as if he’d been struck hard in the chest. If this kid left, where would he find such a cheap worker? It was rare to find someone so diligent, who could also double as a cleaner. Even if he was a bit slow, at least he didn’t look like he was slacking off. Most importantly! If he went to the job market now to find another chopper, he’d have to pay at least fifteen hundred with room and board, and who knows what kind of person he’d get!

People often say: Only when you’re about to lose something do you realize its value. That was true for Mr. Harris as well. Only now did he remember William Ford’s good points, and he hurriedly stammered, “No, no, I just came in to take a look and give a little push, that’s all. You’re doing a good job. Keep it up, everyone work hard, and tonight I’ll treat everyone to an extra meal.”

As he spoke, he awkwardly nodded and bowed his way out. The corners of William Ford’s mouth curled up slightly. To be a temp worker earning two hundred a month and still act like this, even making the The Boss afraid, was something of a miracle.

That night, of course, William Ford couldn’t handle everything alone, so the The Boss personally took up the cleaver and joined him in hacking away at the ribs. Though he ended up with two big blisters on his hands, it was a classic case of pain mixed with joy. After settling the accounts at two in the morning, Mr. Harris was all smiles, having made a killing—five hundred pounds of pork ribs turned into dry pot, all sold out. Even the stingiest boss loosened up for once, handing out fifty yuan bonuses to everyone. As for dinner—more accurately, a midnight snack—it was called hotpot, but in reality, it was just the leftover broth from the customers’ pots mixed together! But after a whole day of hard work, everyone was starving and wolfed it down, not caring about anything except filling their bellies.

William Ford was truly exhausted that night. Though his endurance was strong and he could suppress physical pain, he couldn’t conjure up energy out of thin air. Even while eating, he used his left hand. He had a big appetite and liked to chew slowly, so by the time he finished, most people had already left. Even the most diligent, Third Brother Wright, was snoring away on a bench nearby. William Ford took his lunchbox to wash it, and halfway through, his pupils suddenly contracted!

At some point, Brian Grant had silently appeared right behind him!