Henry Bennett confirmed from yesterday’s emotional conflict that it was indeed Samuel Grant who carved it, but what puzzled him was—could Samuel Grant really carve such deeply etched characters? With those ten fingers that didn’t even have a trace of callus, and that wrist that flailed around while drawing?

He mulled over this, so much so that he forgot to pursue the insult directed at him, gathered his composure, and went to have breakfast, finally running into Samuel Grant. “Junior,” he said, splitting a pair of twisted fried dough sticks in two and handing one half over, “do you like the Slender Gold script?”

Samuel Grant took it and replied openly, “Yes, it’s elegant.”

Henry Bennett found it amusing—choosing even the prettiest style for insults, quite particular, and it suited his own temperament.

After eating, they left early. The schoolbag was still hanging on the bike’s handlebars. As he rang the bell and rode a few meters, Henry Bennett raised his hand just high enough to grab a drooping willow branch by the roadside, pinched it off with his fingernails, and swung it backward. Samuel Grant couldn’t dodge, and besides, the willow branch tickled as it brushed against him, so he grabbed the other end to prevent Henry Bennett from causing more trouble.

Henry Bennett gripped the handlebars with his left hand, awkwardly tugging and pulling with his right, and finally, like a snake eating beans, pinched the willow branch bit by bit with his fingernails, inching forward, attacking little by little, getting closer and closer, until suddenly he brushed against Samuel Grant’s fingertips.

In a flash, the back of Henry Bennett’s hand got slapped.

The willow branch fell, got caught in the bike’s axle and was thoroughly mangled, then, once on the ground, was blown about by the wind—misfortune all around. Henry Bennett’s mischief was pointless, and afterward he felt a bit awkward. Looking down at the words carved on the bike’s crossbar, he deliberately sighed, “With that much force, you must have really hated me when you carved it.”

Samuel Grant said nothing. From the moment they left home until now, he silently memorized every street they passed, and took note of any prominent landmarks at intersections. He had a pen in his pocket, and from time to time would take it out to draw a line on his palm, piecing together a palm-sized map by the time they reached the entrance of No. 6 Middle School.

Henry Bennett propped one foot on the ground, casually making a promise: “I get off work at six-thirty, I’ll be there at forty-five sharp. You can do your homework in the classroom for a bit before coming out.”

Unexpectedly, Samuel Grant shouldered his backpack and said, “No need, I’ve already memorized the way.”

Henry Bennett seemed skeptical: “It’s pretty far, are you sure you’ve got it down?”

“Yeah.” Samuel Grant was quite certain. “I know you don’t want to pick me up and drop me off. This is the last time, you won’t have to trouble yourself anymore.”

That’s what he’d planned all along—memorize the route as soon as possible, so he wouldn’t trouble the other anymore. If Henry Bennett hadn’t forgotten last night, he could have memorized the way then. But Henry Bennett didn’t seem to get it, gripped the handlebars tightly, fell silent for a moment, then turned and left without saying anything.

Henry Bennett went to work, ringing his bell at anyone blocking his way, racing like a superhero, and when he arrived at the Cultural Relics Bureau, the office was still empty. He sat alone at his desk, staring absentmindedly at a faint green mark on his fingernail.

No longer needing to pick up and drop off Samuel Grant—that should have been a cause for celebration, but he felt passive, as if he’d been abandoned. Or rather, as if he’d been dismissed by Samuel Grant.

Samuel Grant had even carved “bastard, son of a bitch” on his bike, and that had become a messy account to settle.

For the first time in his life, Henry Bennett felt so stifled. He’d spent half the night feeling guilty, not even bothering to admire that pile of damaged relics. “What a load of crap,” he muttered, voice muffled and sullen.

Then he raised his voice, letting out a wave of frustration: “I’m done with this! Let’s see what you score on your finals!”

Actually, besides Henry Bennett, the rest of the family was also waiting to see. Although the brothers had all settled on their main careers, none of them were bad at studying—only Jiang Tingen was a bit more playful and did worse.

Samuel Grant had no idea his grades were being watched so closely; he just focused on studying diligently. Besides, he wasn’t interested in making friends, and with the tense atmosphere before finals, he spent the whole day quietly without saying a word.

After school, the class monitor suddenly came over: “You’ll be on cleaning duty during the two days of exams next week.”

Samuel Grant agreed, and decided to stay and help clean today as well, to avoid any rush later. He helped sweep the floor and wipe desks, and by the time he left, there were few people left at school. Naturally, there was no sign of Henry Bennett at the school gate, so he didn’t have to wait, and the other didn’t have to be bothered.

Samuel Grant walked back along the street, stopped at the bus stop and looked up at the sign. Just then a bus arrived, and he silently recited his destination as he got on. It really was quite far; by the time the bus was nearly empty, he got off at “Chi Wang Fu Station” and still had to walk several hundred meters more.

A gentle breeze brushed the willows. Samuel Grant jumped up to break off a branch, swinging it as he walked home. It was the first time since leaving Yangzhou that he felt so free—walking on the left, then the right, kicking a stone or humming a tune. No elders to see him, no senior brothers to mock him, only the living sunset in the sky as his witness.

“Master,” Samuel Grant muttered softly, “Old Ji, I suddenly can’t remember what you look like.”

He broke into a run. “Just bless my shimu, you don’t need to worry about me.”

A dozen meters away, Henry Bennett was slowly walking his bike, watching as Samuel Grant disappeared around the corner. Using the excuse of arriving early, he’d left work fifteen minutes ahead of time. By the time Samuel Grant dawdled out of school, he had already finished three bottles of soda at the convenience store and had pedaled furiously after the bus, only catching his breath when Samuel Grant got off.