Emily is probably the classmate David Foster is most familiar with on campus. The reason is actually quite simple: last time, when the whole class went to Emily's house for a gathering, Emily's mother stared blankly at David Foster, then, with her hands covered in cooking oil, slapped his cheek and called out, “Hey, come here, is this the kid?”

Mr. Sullivan, wearing glasses, slowly walked out from the study, took off his glasses and examined him for a long while before finally saying, “The features are vaguely familiar, but it’s been so many years…”

Emily's mother waved her hand to interrupt, exclaiming, “Why be so roundabout? Just ask the kid what name is on his household registration!”

At this moment, the classmates were all looking curiously at David Foster and Emily's parents. Emily complained, “Mom, Dad, what are you doing? He’s our classmate, usually the shyest one. It was hard enough to get him to come today, don’t scare him off.”

Emily's mother waved her hand and said, “The adults are talking, you kids don’t butt in.” Then, with a gentle smile, she asked, “Kid, what’s your name? Remember, the one on your household registration.”

At this point, David Foster felt like a twelve-foot-tall giant, and stammered, “My name is David Foster.”

As soon as those three characters left his mouth, both Emily's mother and Mr. Sullivan burst out laughing, saying, “Do you still remember who gave you that name?”

David Foster suddenly realized, looked at the two parents for a long time, and then gratefully said, “So it was Mr. Parker and Mr. Sullivan.”

“Mr. Parker?” Although classmate Emily Sullivan didn’t know what was going on, seeing the quietest classmate in the class call her mother Mr. Parker, she couldn’t help but laugh.

After everyone sat down at the dining table, Mr. Sullivan raised his small wine glass and began telling the classmates about his connection with David Foster. When he got emotional, he even sighed with feeling. After a while, Mr. Parker—oh, Emily's mother—asked with concern, “We moved away when you were in elementary school. Have you been doing well since then?”

David Foster was busy dealing with a big chicken leg that Emily's mother had put on his plate, and mumbled, “Everything’s been fine, the neighbors have all been very helpful.”

Emily's mother sighed about his life, then turned to the classmates at the table and started bragging about David Foster's genius days in elementary school, making everyone look at him with newfound respect, not caring that David Foster's face was as red as a boiled shrimp.

After the meal, everyone went their separate ways. Emily walked David Foster to the door, a coat draped over her shoulders. Under the dim light, the girl looked at him with clear eyes and said, “I never expected it, David Foster, you really can pretend. So you were that genius monster from elementary school all along.”

David Foster didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, and said, “You’re the one who forgot my name, how is that pretending? Besides…” He suddenly paused, “Genius monster? Was that really my nickname in elementary school?”

The two of them looked at each other and smiled.

From that day on, David Foster became close with Emily Sullivan, often going to her house for a meal, and after eating, he’d take some tasty food back to his little room.

※※※

Mr. Parker and Mr. Sullivan are truly wonderful people.

David Foster watched the bicycle disappear into the distance, standing in a daze at the school gate. Looking up, he saw the night sky growing darker, and knowing it might rain that night, he quickly got on his bike and hurried home.

His little room was still in the same old place, in the messiest corner of the old city.

David Foster carefully took off his shirt and trousers—so faded it was hard to tell if they were blue or white—folded them neatly and placed them on the bed, even putting a newspaper between the sheet and his clothes. Then he reached under the bed for his work clothes, and without even a frown, put them on with practiced ease.

His work clothes consisted of a pair of ridiculously black jeans, a blue work jacket from some unknown textile factory, a battered straw hat with frayed edges, and a handkerchief that would never come out white no matter how much it was washed.

Once dressed, he slung his basket over his back, put on the pair of rubber shoes that had accompanied him through more than ten years of scavenging, and gripped the split bamboo stick in his hand like a sword. Our scavenger boy softly sang, “I only see you leave, never see you return…” imitating the drawn-out singing from TV dramas, and started walking down the dark street toward the city’s large garbage dump.

The further he walked, the better his mood became. You know, these rubber shoes used to be so big he had to tie them with a hemp rope to walk, but now they fit better and better. In such a good mood, the scavenger boy walked lightly down the cobblestone alley, almost as if he was about to dance.

Up ahead was his night shift spot: the Gonghe Village garbage station.

A mountain of trash appeared before David Foster, and a wave of stench hit him in the face. He gently took off the gray handkerchief tied around his nose, but there was no sign of discomfort on his face. Of course, after scavenging for more than ten years, how could he not be used to it by now?