In most Chinese rural areas, there is a strong preference for boys over girls, but my father was an exception—he loved all of us siblings equally. Naturally, as the youngest son, I received a bit more affection.

　　“Oh, Mr. Walker is here.” From the voice, I could tell it was my homeroom teacher, Mr. Foster (after half a day of classes, at least I had figured out her surname). “Mr. Foster.” My father greeted her with a cheerful smile.

　　“Mr. Walker, how could I possibly deserve such a title from you? You were my first teacher, my mentor. Just call me by my name.” Mr. Foster said with a slightly exaggerated expression.

　　Heh, I guessed right—Mr. Foster really was my father’s student.

　　“Hehe, you’re a full-fledged teacher now, what’s there not to deserve? Besides, Little John still needs your care.” As soon as Little John was mentioned, Mr. Foster’s eyes lit up, as if she had found a treasure.

　　“Mr. Walker, to tell you the truth, your Little John is absolutely a prodigy. His calligraphy is beautiful.” My father just smiled, taking it as a casual compliment from Mr. Foster. This Little Yvonne is still too young—if she wanted to praise my parenting, she could have said things like smart, diligent, or attentive in class. Instead, she insisted on complimenting Little John’s calligraphy. Mastering calligraphy isn’t something you can do overnight. My son had only learned to hold a brush for a few days—what could he possibly write?

　　Seeing my father’s noncommittal response, Mr. Foster thought he was just being modest.

　　“Mr. Walker, Little John is truly a promising student. Not only is his calligraphy good, but his arithmetic is also excellent. If you nurture him well, he’ll definitely become a state employee like you in the future.” In 1976, the national college entrance exam hadn’t been reinstated yet, and the idea of becoming a college student was a distant dream for ordinary people. Saying a child could grow up to be a state employee was the highest form of blessing. As for Mr. Foster herself, she was probably still a community-appointed teacher, a far cry from a public school teacher.

　　When it came to my arithmetic skills, my father actually believed it.

　　I remember in my previous life, my father told me more than once that when I was only three or four years old, I could already do addition and subtraction with numbers up to ten thousand. First-grade math was child’s play for me, both in my past and present life.

　　After watching the three of us siblings wolf down our meal, my father chatted with Mr. Foster for a while longer before finally cleaning up the dishes and reluctantly heading home.

　　During the three afternoon classes, I was almost entirely preoccupied with thoughts of Matang Bay. What was it about that place that tugged at my heart? Fortunately, no matter how distracted I was, I could answer all of Mr. Foster’s questions fluently, so I didn’t ruin the good impression I’d left on her.

　　Just before school ended, it suddenly came to me.

　　Mr. Smith!

　　Mr. Smith of Matang Bay was, in my previous life’s memory, a remarkable figure in our Xiangyang County.

　　I didn’t know Mr. Smith’s full name, since I’d never interacted with him in my past life. Everything I knew about Mr. Smith came from the stories of the older generation. He was a highly learned man, a top graduate of Renmin University in the capital, and before the Great Revolution, a professor of Party history at the Party School of the Provincial Committee in N Province.

　　In my previous life—after the year 2000—professors gradually lost their prestige. But in 1976, that was absolutely a big deal. Just think, even college students were his disciples.

　　During the Great Revolution, Mr. Smith was sent down to do farm work at home. Poor man—a professor who couldn’t carry loads or do manual labor—how could he handle the farm work in the production team? He was in poor health and had a stubborn temper, refusing to bow his head, so he suffered a lot. At first, the village leaders pitied him, seeing him as an intellectual, and gave him the easy job of keeping work records. But he didn’t appreciate it, so the leaders liked him even less and left him to fend for himself. He barely had enough to eat, wore tattered clothes, and looked nothing like a city person—more like a beggar. When people called him Mr. Smith, it was more mockery than respect.

　　After the Great Revolution ended, Mr. Smith was rehabilitated and returned to work. Not long after, he became the deputy principal of the Provincial Party School, enjoying the rank and benefits of a department-level official. That wasn’t all—many of the students he taught before the Revolution were reinstated and became county leaders all over the place. The Party Secretary of our Xiangyang County was one of his students.

　　But in 1976, who could have predicted that Zachary the Madman (polite people called him Mr. Smith to his face, but behind his back, they’d sneer and call him Zachary the Madman) would make a comeback and return to the provincial capital as a high-ranking official? If only they had known, they would have tried to curry favor with him.

　　That “if only” is crucial—and as it happens, I am the one who “knows.”

　　If you could know three days in advance, you’d be rich for ten thousand years.

　　With such a treasure right in front of me, how could I possibly resist digging it up? Even though by the time I’m an adult, Mr. Smith will probably be retired, it’s still beneficial to make this connection, right? I can’t say exactly what the benefits will be, but having one more friend is always better than having one more enemy.

　　Motivated by the bright prospect of getting to know Mr. Smith, I grabbed my second and third sisters by the hand and skipped all the way home.

　　As soon as I saw my father, I suddenly realized another problem—how was I going to explain this to him?