After the child learned to walk, besides scavenging for food on the garbage hill, he started squatting every day at the West Street market. His small body, hands tucked inside his sleeves, looked quite amusing. He wasn’t there to look for something tasty; he was there to pick up orange peels. This small mountain town in western Hubei was famous for its oranges.

The little guy used his tiny palms to pick up the orange peels discarded by others in the muddy market, then bundled them in his arms, trotted home, and placed them on his little bed. When the sun was out, he would take them out to dry. Dried orange peels could be sold for twelve cents a pound. The little guy saved up his money and then bought a bag of tobacco leaves for his grandpa at the market.

When the little guy nervously pulled out a handful of small change from his chest and handed it to the tobacco seller, everyone in the market burst out laughing and praised him for his filial piety.

At that time, he didn’t understand what filial piety meant. He just wanted his dearest grandpa not to have to pick up cigarette butts every day. He wanted his dearest grandpa to be able to smoke a pipe like those old men chatting idly by the river.

He liked the wisps of blue smoke curling up from the pipe.

Others praised his filial piety, but it was just a couple of words of admiration. Life for the grandfather and grandson didn’t get any better. Every day, they still had to scavenge through various garbage heaps, and every night, they still had to return to that shabby little dark room, falling asleep amid the stench inside.

This kind of life continued until the little guy was six years old.

One day, grandpa went to sleep and never woke up.

The little guy cried for days. The neighborhood committee people dragged the old man to the back hill and buried him. Then a bunch of people sat around the little guy, who looked like a lump of black charcoal, in the neighborhood committee’s small house, dazed. “What will happen to this child from now on?”

“Shouldn’t he be starting school?” The husband of The Director was a teacher at the county elementary school.

Someone nearby said, “But who will pay?”

“It’s compulsory education, the school can waive part of the fees.”

“Then who will take care of him?”

The whole room fell silent.

The little guy stared blankly at the adults in the room, slowly looked around, and then said, word by word, in a childish voice, “I can take care of myself.”

The room erupted in noise, and after much arguing, that was how it was settled.

The husband of The Director frowned again, “To go to school, you need a household registration. The old man probably never registered this child.”

So before starting school, the little guy was taken by the adults to get registered. The local police officer was a young man, just graduated from the police academy, still with a boyish face. He looked troubled and said to everyone, “There’s no birth certificate or anything, how can I register him?”

The Director had the natural temperament of an auntie and shouted, “We’ve watched this little guy grow up since he was a baby, do you want to count him as an outsider?”

Although Chinese people tend to avoid trouble, there’s a rule that as long as someone takes the lead, a sense of justice will overflow. So the police station was soon filled with a chorus of chattering protests—of course, mostly from the women.

That young policeman’s surname was Li, a local officer, a public servant, a servant of the people. What’s more, among the crowd making a fuss, a middle-aged woman was glaring fiercely at him. How could he dare say anything?

That middle-aged woman was his mother.

So, for the first time, the little guy got a small booklet proving his identity. Officer Thompson filled out the form in somewhat clumsy regular script while asking, “Name?”

“……” The little guy looked confused, stared for a long time, then answered, “My grandpa called me Tianxing, said it was a blessing from heaven that I survived.”

The husband of The Lady—oh, that title is too cumbersome—so Mr. Sullivan quickly stepped in to help, “No, no, that name is too plain. ‘Tianxing’—asking the heavens for luck—doesn’t fit the requirements of spiritual civilization. How about this, let’s call him Tianxing, as in ‘man triumphs over heaven, walks the path of heaven,’ that’s wonderful…” He nodded and muttered to himself, but no one minded. After all, among these people, this language teacher was the most learned and the most eloquent.

Officer Thompson was stunned again, “Then what’s the family name?”

Everyone was stumped. No one knew the surname of the old scavenger who had just died a few days ago.

“Yi.” The little guy, who had been hanging his head, finally spoke up, his voice as soft as a mosquito’s.

“Oh.” Officer Thompson quickly finished filling out the form, then handed it to the little guy, saying, “See if there’s any problem.”

The little guy glanced at it, then said timidly, “I can’t read.” Officer Thompson suddenly understood and took the form back, not noticing the little guy muttering softly, “I only know the character ‘one,’ so I wanted my surname to be ‘One.’ Why did it end up being such a complicated character?”

This was the sixth year since David Foster came into this world. In this year, he lost the person dearest to him, but for the first time in his life, he had his own name. Most importantly, he started school.