He walked into the garbage heap, gently turning things over with his gloved left hand, picking out plastic bottles and glass bottles. These days, there still weren’t many aluminum cans; if he happened to find one, it was like finding treasure. He would quickly press it flat between his palms and then put it into the basket on his back. His left hand sorted with incredible skill, but his right hand wasn’t idle either. He would deftly use a bamboo stick to pinch a paper scrap or bag from the ground, then flick it backward and release it, and the filthy, crumpled paper ball would obediently land in the basket behind him, all with effortless ease. The long bamboo stick in his hand was wielded as nimbly as chopsticks in anyone else’s.

People who pick through garbage could be considered colleagues, right? If you’re digging for a living in the same garbage heap every day, that makes you coworkers, doesn’t it? Unfortunately, all that existed between these coworkers were cold, indifferent glances. But maybe that was for the best—it saved everyone from the fake smiles you’d see in an office.

David Foster watched from a distance as three or four fellow scavengers moved about the garbage heap, and smiled slightly. He was very satisfied with this life where he didn’t have to talk to anyone, because most of the time, he didn’t even know if others could understand what he was saying.

The garbage dump reeked under the night sky, and even the bright moon seemed unable to bear the stench, quietly hiding behind the clouds, making it even darker around David Foster.

In the deep night, a few people approached from afar, wearing trendy baggy pants and T-shirts. David Foster had sharp eyes and could see clearly: these people were carrying several lumps of aluminum ingots, heading toward a farm truck parked outside the dump.

He frowned, knowing these must be local thugs stealing raw materials from the factory to the north. He quickly turned and walked back a few steps. As he passed by a few old scavengers, he quietly gave them a warning. Only then did those old scavengers realize there were thugs behind them; startled, they hurriedly scurried to the far side of the garbage heap.

David Foster deliberately lagged behind, not wanting to move too quickly and draw the thugs’ attention.

Unexpectedly, the farm truck loaded with stolen goods wouldn’t start. The engine sputtered but the truck wouldn’t move. The thugs were stunned, looking at the hundreds of kilos of aluminum ingots, then at their useless, broken-down truck. After scratching their heads and discussing for a while, one of the thugs, holding his nose, walked toward the scavengers on the heap.

“Hey, you beggars, come with me. There’s something in it for you.”

The scavengers stared blankly at the thug with the brutish face. One bolder middle-aged farmer forced a smile and asked, “Big brother, what do you need?”

“Oh, I need a few porters.”

The scavengers glanced at the farm truck parked by the muddy road and immediately understood what was going on. Some of the more timid ones quickly waved their hands in refusal.

The thug scowled and shouted, “What the hell are you afraid of? I’m just asking you to help carry something. It’s not like I won’t pay you! All of you, get over here, or I’ll beat you to death.” As he spoke, the thug unbuttoned his shirt, revealing a machete tucked into his waistband.

Seeing the thug get aggressive, the scavengers didn’t dare say much, and timidly followed him down the garbage mound. Only David Foster smiled and said, “Big brother, I’m in a hurry to get home for something. Could I leave first?”

The thug looked him up and down, then suddenly burst out laughing. “You’re a pretty clean-looking kid. Why are you picking through garbage like these beggars?”

“Just trying to get by,” David Foster replied calmly.

The thug frowned, perhaps annoyed by the young man’s calm and unyielding attitude, and suddenly cursed, “I’m just trying to get by too! Are you coming or not?”

David Foster had always kept his head down, picking through garbage, never expecting to make enemies this way. For more than ten years, he’d always put on an honest, well-behaved face, never getting into conflicts with anyone. Seeing the thug get aggressive, he thought it over. Normally, he’d just go along—at worst, he’d be taken to the police station. As a scavenger, he doubted the police would let him eat for free for a few days… But… but tonight, he really did have something very important to do.

So, after fifteen years of being well-behaved, David Foster finally, cautiously, voiced a bit of resistance.

The thug didn’t say a word—he just slapped him across the face.

A loud “smack.”

David Foster smiled at the thug, not even a red mark on his cheek.

The thug looked at his own palm in surprise, feeling a burning pain along the edge, and then looked at David Foster, who seemed completely unfazed. A chill crept into his heart—something about this felt off.