Hearing this, David Sullivan remembered—this man was Emily Thompson's neighbor, a well-known figure in Lǚjia Village, and the owner of Eric Clark's butcher shop.

His family had been in the business of making marinated offal since the previous generation, and they had quite a reputation.

Emily Thompson said, “I've got it all down, there’s no mistake.”

Eric Clark, still uneasy, double-checked everything himself before finally leaving.

With no one else nearby, David Sullivan asked, “The meat he delivered?”

“Yeah.” Emily Thompson tidied up the account book. “Third Grandpa asked us to prepare it. The army helped us, so we should make sure they eat well.”

Suddenly, he said, “Dongzi, could you give Eric Clark a beating?”

“What’s up?” David Sullivan was surprised—Emily Thompson wasn’t the type to call for a fight.

Emily Thompson glanced at the school gate. “Since noon, when he brought the food, Eric Clark hasn’t stopped talking about money. Our village is like this—who doesn’t pitch in? He’s obsessed with money!”

David Sullivan helped him move a table into the office. “This kind of thing depends on people’s conscience, you can’t force it.”

Emily Thompson added, “Since last year, when Eric Clark started supplying Mid-Autumn Festival gifts and New Year’s goods to some township enterprises and units in H County, he’s been all about the money.”

David Sullivan didn’t respond—he knew there was more than one person like that. He pulled Emily Thompson along. “Come on, let’s go eat.”

Chapter 8: Fished Up a Vinegar Dish

That night, David Sullivan woke up several times in a panic, but thankfully, the life-or-death emergency gong never sounded again.

With so much on his mind, David Sullivan got up before five o’clock and started pounding the punching bag in the old house’s courtyard.

He didn’t know any professional moves—just threw wild punches, treating it as exercise.

After a while, he washed up quickly, grabbed a small stool, and sat down to think.

Ever since he returned to 1998 the night before last, he’d been busy fighting the flood, with no time to think about much else.

Especially about the future.

In his previous life, for a long time after 1998, David Sullivan drifted aimlessly.

He hung around the streets, got addicted to online games, and only made enough money to get by—sometimes even needing help from his mom and cousin. It wasn’t until after 2010 that he finally woke up.

He couldn’t keep going down the same old path—he had to get rich!

There are many ways to measure happiness, but wealth is the foundation.

But as for what specific opportunities there were in these two years, David Sullivan was still pretty clueless.

The only thing that really left an impression was the university town.

If he wanted to do something, he had to go check it out in person.

No investigation, no right to speak.

And then there was money.

Society is harsh.

He couldn’t count on his family—David Sullivan didn’t even need to ask to know their situation.

Today was July 12th. They’d just handed in the public grain not long ago, the orchard apples weren’t ready yet, and the family probably didn’t even have 500 yuan.

The orchard was over twenty mu, but it didn’t produce grain. The public grain was borrowed for now—they’d pay it back after selling the fruit.

You couldn’t default on public grain, or the consequences would be serious.

His mom had had a hard life—he couldn’t add to her burdens. At eighteen, he was an adult, and it was time to shoulder his own responsibilities.

As for his uncle’s family, they’d helped so many times he’d lost count—he didn’t even know how to repay them.

Even with close blood relatives, you can’t just take it for granted.

The future would have to be fought for by himself, through hard work and effort.

A small person’s hard work doesn’t guarantee success, but without it, there’s not even hope.

This was the reality—he was poor, and everyone around him was poor too. Who could help whom?

In the countryside, too many people are exhausted just trying to survive.

The most important thing was to support himself first—to earn enough to get a foothold.

That was the most realistic goal for now.

In the end, money is the foundation! David Sullivan couldn’t think about anything but making money.

So, his current goal was to earn enough to stand on his own, and to save up some seed money for developing in the university town.

Take it one step at a time.

He locked the door and went to the orchard for breakfast. On the way, he checked the river embankment. After a night, the water level had dropped more than two meters from its peak, almost level with the road outside the embankment.

This flood was almost over—as long as there wasn’t another sudden downpour upstream, there shouldn’t be any more problems.

Breakfast was plain noodle soup—noodles boiled in water, seasoned with soy sauce, aged vinegar, and sesame oil, topped with chopped cilantro for freshness. Simple and convenient.

While David Sullivan was eating, Grace Howard started her usual nagging beside him: “I went to the village early to trade for noodles. I heard the army’s leaving this afternoon. They’ve helped us so much, but our apples and the loofahs and cucumbers we planted aren’t ripe yet, so we have nothing to give. Dongzi, go borrow a net from your Seventh Uncle and see if you can catch a few big fish to give to the army.”

“Okay, I’ll go after I eat.” David Sullivan glanced east toward the ancestral hall, where bundles of leftover wheat straw from the harvest were piled up. In the temporary vegetable patch nearby, the loofahs and cucumbers were just starting to climb the trellis.

There really wasn’t anything at home worth giving.

They couldn’t give wheat straw—the army wasn’t a paper mill.

With the flood this big, who knew how many fish had come down from the reservoir.

After breakfast, David Sullivan went back to the village to borrow a fishing net from his Seventh Uncle, and was startled as soon as he walked in.

Seventh Uncle was leaning on a shovel, Seventh Aunt was clutching a fish spear, and the two of them were facing off in the courtyard.

At the main room’s door, a boy of about eight or nine sat on a bamboo chair, popping peanuts into his mouth, watching the show with great interest.

“What’s going on?” David Sullivan groaned. “What is it this time?”