So he couldn’t leave. After completing his two-year service, Evan Ford stayed for another five years.

During that time, he went home twice a year, but never for long. The little salary he earned, he tried his best to save a bit and send it to his parents, but they always sent it back.

It wasn’t until those nine orphans all got into middle school and left the village that Evan Ford finally left as well.

He left in ’92 and returned in ’99, empty-handed. At 26, Evan Ford finally came back to his hometown—Shuichang City, Yuejiang Province, a developed province on the eastern coast.

In those seven years, what he missed wasn’t just time or the reallocation quota that had already been taken by someone with connections. More importantly, he missed that crucial period of rapid social change at the end of the century.

After coming back, Evan Ford felt like someone partially out of touch with the times. He knew about many things, but lacked firsthand experience and the mindset to keep up. So just learning and adapting took a lot of effort.

For the next decade or so, relying on a decent mind and the resilience honed over seven years, he managed okay. But whatever he did, he always felt rushed, always a step behind, and so he was left with many regrets—after all, he was late for so long.

Those years, running around and exhausted, when he was alone and quiet, he would sometimes wonder:

If I hadn’t missed those seven years, what would my life be like? Would it be completely different, or maybe even close to perfect?

“Heaven seems determined to compensate me for everything. So, in this life, should I still go?”

“At the very least, I have to stop that disaster. Even if I do it differently, that place, those people, that bond—I have to repay it.”

“And also…”

“What about the college entrance exam?”

“Honestly, even if I had to take it now, I probably couldn’t. I’ve forgotten almost everything. Even if I work hard next semester, it probably won’t be enough—I’d need at least a year of intense study.”

“So why not just go for a year? Take care of things while quietly focusing and working hard.”

“If I really go for a year, I have to make sure not to waste time or miss opportunities. Does that mean I need to start doing something right now? The next six months will be incredibly precious and important.”

“What should I do?”

A few roommates who were “building the Great Wall” together finally couldn’t take it anymore…

“Hey, Evan Ford, are you going to play that Nan Feng tile in your hand or not?”

“Yeah, what is this, the rules of Nanguan Province? You have to hold the Nan Feng tile for ten minutes before you can play it?”

“This guy is just faking a win and making stuff up, acting like he really stayed in Nanguan Province.”

His thoughts were interrupted. Evan Ford tapped the tile against his forehead and smiled, “Alright, Nan Feng. I’ll play it.”

Chapter Four: I Have to Get on the Table First

That evening after dinner, the roommates suddenly all started getting ready with great care.

The bathhouse was full, and there wasn’t enough hot water, but they still washed their hair despite the cold. The more determined even took a full bath—gritting their teeth, closing their eyes, dumping a basin of cold water over their heads, quickly soaping up and scrubbing, then rinsing off the foam with two more basins of water. Their scalps tingling, they’d dash back to the dorm, wailing like ghosts.

Normally, they might be pretty sloppy.

But in their messy suitcases, there would always be a set of clothes washed spotlessly clean, carrying the fresh scent of soap and sunshine—socks, underwear, shirt, sweater, jacket—all neatly folded and set aside for a week, just for this day.

Usually, they’d also have a pair of dress shoes ready. If not, at least a pair of clean, odorless shoes.

Once dressed, they’d take turns with the two round mirrors on the table, each with a plastic case—usually bright red or green—with a poster of a female celebrity on the back, the colors always too dark.

They’d prop up the mirror, press a comb to their scalp, and push a straight line up to the top. Then, with both hands, part their hair, and the hairstyle was done.

Most went for a 3:7 or 4:6 part; occasionally someone tried a center part, but that was hard to pull off—if your face shape or vibe didn’t match, you’d just look like a traitor.

Evan Ford sat quietly to the side, arms crossed, watching the group busily prepare, as if they were all going on a group blind date.

“What, you’re not going?” A roommate, both hands pressing down his hair to fix his style, turned to ask Evan Ford.

“Go… where?”

“The dance at the nursing school next door tonight, did you forget?” The roommate looked at Evan Ford in disbelief.

Evan Ford remembered. Right, in this era, colleges and technical schools usually had dances on weekends. Boys, girls, even teachers—everyone learned ballroom dancing together. Some schools even held competitions.

Compared to college life in the later computer and mobile phone era, this was perhaps one of the few enviable things about this time. You didn’t have to rack your brains to strike up a conversation, didn’t have to feel awkward—there was a normal channel for boys and girls to have “ambiguous” contact… from words to body language.

So many campus romances, so many heart-fluttering moments, all naturally blossomed in these light steps and gentle pushes and pulls.

Next to Linzhou Normal School was a nursing school. They held dances too, but lacked male students. You can imagine how “wonderful” this was—some roommates already had familiar dance partners, others were still playing the field, but everyone treated it as a top priority and looked forward to it every week.