Of course, Old Mr. Bolton didn’t want others to see him as a selfish class enemy who didn’t care about the lives of ordinary people, so he started a fertilizer-for-drinking-water scheme in the village—everyone could exchange urine for clean water, with exchange times set four times a day: morning, noon, evening, and before bed. It had to be fresh, because some people would try to pass off industrial wastewater as urine, and Old Mr. Bolton couldn’t exactly taste it to check. Later, when the villagers protested that holding in their urine for half a day was too cruel, the exchange times were changed to six times a day.

Someone, after exchanging for water, said reluctantly, “Old Mr. Bolton, can I get a bit more? My stream is thicker, you can hear the difference.”

“Get lost! I’m not your wife, why should I care how thick it is!” Old Mr. Bolton scowled and drove the person away.

Just then, Oily Face, who had gone into the outhouse, was in good form—a powerful stream could be heard, and the stopwatch in Old Mr. Bolton’s hand had already hit 37 seconds.

Suddenly, Old Mr. Bolton’s face darkened. He kicked open the outhouse door. As the door flew open, everyone’s faces froze in shock. Oily Face was so startled he couldn’t move, his pants had slipped down to his feet, and he was holding a plastic bag of urine that was still shooting a stream into the urine bucket, splashing noisily.

“Oh—” the crowd gasped in amazement.

With a splash, the urine bag slipped from Oily Face’s hand and spilled all over him.

“Damn your ancestors!” Old Mr. Bolton was so furious he let out a loud fart, both embarrassed and angry, and kicked Oily Face in the side.

Oily Face flew out from the outhouse, rolled several times, his pale butt spinning and making everyone dizzy.

Old Mr. Bolton wasn’t done yet. He took a wooden stick from the outhouse and was about to go after him. Just then, someone came running over, shouting as he ran, “Da... da... da... Old Mr. Bolton! The water’s gone! Your... all your water is gone!”

Old Mr. Bolton froze, his hand raised in midair. He had known all along that the groundwater would disappear one day; in places with abundant underground water, it was common for a river to appear overnight and dry up just as quickly. He began to assess his situation—he could no longer command the wind and rain. In the past, all the men in the village had to bow to him, but now he’d have to live like a real man on his own. Fortunately, he had always transferred water to his own storage tank every day, so with these reserves, he could get through the drought more comfortably than others.

Old Mr. Bolton shouted to the people in line, “No more exchanges, no more today. Wait for further notice about when we’ll resume.”

Someone asked miserably, “Old Mr. Bolton, how long do I have to hold it?”

“Hold what? Just dump the yellow and white stuff on your own fields!”

The messenger, still out of breath, said, “The... the storage tank is dry too!”

This sentence hit like a bolt from the blue. Old Mr. Bolton’s face turned the color of urine, and he collapsed to the ground. A gust of wind blew up, carrying dusty sand, blowing across the villagers’ already yellowish faces, and across Old Mr. Bolton’s once clean face, turning them all the same color.

The village committee symbolically set up an investigation team for the water theft incident, but most of them were just gloating—if everyone is blind, who can tolerate someone who can still see? Only Old Mr. Bolton worked tirelessly, checking which family’s water tank had suddenly filled up, whose vegetable patch was suddenly wet, whose child was suddenly clean, but he found nothing. Twelve cubic meters of water had just vanished; even if it had been stolen, there should be some trace of where it went.

Just when everyone was at a loss, there was a sudden turn of events. It wasn’t that the thief was found, but that the water in the village’s public storage tank had also been stolen. There were two storage tanks in the village, and the water in one of them disappeared overnight. Now, finding water became the whole village’s problem.

The village formed a joint defense team to patrol and guard the remaining storage tank. Old Mr. Bolton was the most enthusiastic and naturally took on the role of team leader.

At night, he leaned on a wooden stick by the water tank, ears pricked, eyes alert—even a pair of crickets mating couldn’t escape his notice.

A bright moon hung in the sky, the night was silent and windless, and the water in the tank lay quietly under the moonlight, like a mysterious guest hiding countless secrets. Could this water be a visitor from another world, flying home in the dead of night?

The water in the tank made a sound. He quickly leaned over to look—it was a frog jumping into the water, shattering the moonlight on the surface. The ripples sparkled, trying desperately to come together, only to be broken apart again. What a lively scene.

But the liveliness was an illusion, because there was no sound. If a group of people gathered at the village entrance and chatted without a sound, it would be a truly bizarre sight.

No one knew how much time had passed when, in the darkness, a shadow quietly crept in. Old Mr. Bolton tensed up, pulled his head back, and gripped his stick tightly. The shadow moved almost flat against the ground, walking silently. Although hidden in the surrounding darkness, the clothes the shadow wore were not suited for night, giving him away. The clothes shimmered in the night, the kind worn by those young fools who looked down on farmers but couldn’t quite imitate city folk.

Better wait and see! Old Mr. Bolton didn’t stick his head out.

The shadow crept to the edge of the storage tank, climbed up to the rim. Old Mr. Bolton looked up and saw his strange clothes and thin, hunched figure. The person hadn’t brought any tools for drawing water. The shadow leapt into the tank, and with only a faint splash, disappeared without a trace.