How do you drive? Because driving is fast. Why be fast? Because if you leave late, you'll be late... Henry Bennett suddenly put down his chopsticks—he had forgotten to pick up Samuel Grant from school!

That pile of "junk" was on the car seat; afraid it would get broken from bumps, he didn't dare drive too fast. Henry Bennett took a shortcut to the gate of No. 6 Middle School. The big iron gate was closed, and it was pitch black inside, not a soul in sight.

He got out of the car and shouted through the iron gate, "Sir! Has that transfer student from this morning already left?"

The old man came out: "He watched the news through my window and then left."

Henry Bennett drove off, keeping an eye on both sides of the street, but a car can't go too slow, and there were always places he couldn't see clearly. He guessed Samuel Grant might already be home, so he simply sped up and headed back.

There was no one in the front yard living room; Edward Bennett had taken Lillian Carter to a friend's birthday party. Henry Bennett ran into the small courtyard, found the lights off and the door closed—Samuel Grant wasn't back. He ran back to the front yard bedroom to find Grace Carter and asked, "Auntie, has Samuel Grant come back?"

"No, Samuel was at school today, right?" Grace Carter said. "Weren't you in charge of picking him up? I thought you two were eating out..."

Henry Bennett didn't wait for her to finish and turned to leave, jumped on his bike, and rushed into the night, riding along the street and calling out. The house was quite far from the school, and they'd driven fast in the morning—Samuel Grant definitely couldn't remember the way. Who knew where he was wandering now.

Samuel Grant was indeed lost. He had waited at the school gate for an hour, until the whole school was empty. He tried retracing his steps, getting hungrier as he walked. This place was much bigger than Yangzhou, the roads so wide, the streetlights spaced so far apart. He passed a lake—he didn't remember a lake on the way here—and after another turn, he entered a park from the lakeside.

When he came out, it looked different again. There were willows and roses along the street, and the newsstand was locking up. He went over to ask for directions to Yuxiaoji, and the person said it was far. He looked up at the moon—the moon here was just like the one in Yangzhou.

He wanted to go back to Yangzhou, wanted Vera Grant, whom he had only ever called "Dad" once in his life.

He had clearly reminded Henry Bennett to pick him up early—so why didn't Henry Bennett come?

Was it because the lucky bamboo he carved was too ugly, or because he used fake jade to trick people, or maybe because he didn't lend out that book "As Mountain, As Sea"? Samuel Grant kept walking, the bright moonlight on his back feeling like a burden. He walked along the base of a wall; the red walls and black tiles were quite beautiful, so he just kept following them.

When Henry Bennett saw Samuel Grant, the latter was looking at a row of bird nests under the eaves.

"Pearl Grant." he called.

Samuel Grant looked over, showing no expression at all—no joy, no disappointment, nothing.

Henry Bennett pushed his bike over and reached out to take the backpack off Samuel Grant's shoulder. It was heavy—he found it heavy even just carrying it. He didn't quite know how to start, but in the end, he still sounded the same: "Why didn't you wait for me? Why did you run off?"

Samuel Grant said, "I knew you wouldn't come for me."

"What?"

"I knew you never planned to pick me up."

"I just forgot..." Henry Bennett squeezed the bell, his guilt obvious. "I had something to do and forgot. But I'm out here looking for you now, aren't I? Get on."

The bicycle rolled steadily along the street, the backpack swaying from the handlebars. Henry Bennett had worked up a sweat looking for him, his shirt sticking to his back. Samuel Grant gripped the spring under the seat, his legs slightly bent and trembling.

"Hungry? What did you learn today? Did your classmates make you say anything in Yangzhou dialect?" Henry Bennett fired off a string of questions, but didn't get a single word in response. He suddenly braked hard. "What do you want from me, exactly? Ask the gatekeeper tomorrow if I came or not. I forgot, that's all—don't make it sound like I did it on purpose."

Samuel Grant punched him in the back: "Forgetting isn't okay either!"

Henry Bennett was stunned by the punch, and understood Samuel Grant's unspoken meaning. He really had forgotten, but to Samuel Grant, forgetting was no different from being abandoned, because the feeling at the time was the same.

A weary bird wants to return to its nest; Samuel Grant had waited at the school gate until everyone was gone, just as lost as when he left Yangzhou.

He was at a loss for words, so Samuel Grant said, "I'll remember the way soon. But before I do, can't you just not forget?" This time his voice was very soft.

Henry Bennett pedaled all the way home in one go. Grace Carter was waiting for them at the gate, and had already heated up dinner. Samuel Grant didn't eat, just went straight to his room to do homework. Henry Bennett pleaded with Grace Carter, "Can you take him something to eat?"

Grace Carter dished up the food: "You go yourself."

Henry Bennett carried the bowl with one hand back to the small courtyard. The door, usually ajar, was tightly shut. He knocked, but no one answered. "I'm coming in," he said, pushing the door open. The light was on inside, books were on the desk, but Samuel Grant wasn't there.

He figured Samuel Grant was taking a shower, so he put down the bowl and left quickly, to avoid another unpleasant encounter.

The night passed. Henry Bennett got up early, holding a pump to inflate the bike tires. As he got closer, he noticed a line of small characters on the bike's crossbar, written in perfect Slender Gold script, carved and then gilded, the brushwork hidden at the turning points.

It stood out clearly—"Bastard, son of a bitch!"

Chapter 5: This Person Is Fickle.

Henry Bennett thought this was probably what they call karma.

He bent down to study those five little characters. Setting aside the content, the writing was really good, and the carving was well done too. When he touched it, the marks at the turns and corners were quite deep, showing considerable strength—very vigorous indeed.