David Carter didn’t even lift his head, walking on his own. He figured that once he turned the corner ahead, he’d see the main street of Jiangmiao Town. He was pondering how to report in—should he put on a humble, dejected look as if he’d been demoted, or act nonchalant and carefree as if nothing had happened?

He hadn’t been disciplined, not even given a public criticism, but everyone knew that being transferred from the criminal police team to a police station—especially a rural one—meant only one thing if you weren’t being promoted to a leadership position: it was a punishment, a reassignment with a strong whiff of exile.

“Big Eggplant?!”

A voice from ahead snapped David Carter out of his thoughts. Big Eggplant?

David Carter was startled for a moment. It had been years since anyone called him by that nickname. It dated back to his junior high days at the factory’s school—a “glorious” title earned during a silly contest in the boys’ restroom, where everyone took turns seeing who could pee the highest. He didn’t win, but his “equipment” caught the attention of his buddies. Plus, he was the eldest son at home, so the name Big Eggplant stuck.

But that nickname was only used privately among classmates. David Carter had always been embarrassed by it, and anyone who dared call him that to his face would pay the price. However, after entering the police academy and experiencing the pleasures of adulthood, David Carter no longer minded the nickname—though no one ever called him that again.

David Carter looked up, squinting at the bicycle blocking his path. The guy on the bike had a face full of pimples—what most people called “itchy pimples.” One foot on the ground, the other on the pedal, he grinned widely at David Carter in surprise.

“Guodong? Is that you?” The other guy seemed unsure and called out again, louder.

The sunlight was harsh, but David Carter raised his hand to shield his forehead and took a look. The guy hadn’t changed much—still looked a bit sleazy—but he’d grown taller, maybe even a bit taller than David Carter. He wore a blue tank top, his broad back glistening with sweat.

“Charles?” David Carter’s mood instantly improved. This old buddy! Running into an old classmate right after coming back really washed away his earlier gloom.

“Ha! What are you doing strutting around here? Got punished? Aren’t you hot?” The bike rolled up and stopped in front of David Carter, the strong smell of sweat almost making him pinch his nose.

“Screw you!” David Carter shot back, hopping onto the back seat. “Let’s go, to Jiangmiao Street. I’m roasting here.”

Charles Wilson pedaled hard, and five minutes later, David Carter and Charles Wilson were cooling off under a ceiling fan in a restaurant.

A plate of fried peanuts, a dish of braised pig’s head, a bowl of steamed pork, a serving of twice-cooked pork, a bottle of Liuliangchun liquor—the two classmates started drinking.

“Guodong, what’s up with you? Weren’t you a detective in the county criminal police team? Never saw you come back—I was thinking of visiting you in the county one of these days. How come you’re walking home now?” Charles Wilson took off his tank top, revealing a muscular build, grabbed a piece of pig’s head and stuffed it in his mouth, then took a big swig of liquor.

“It’s a long story.” David Carter imitated the mysterious tone of masters in martial arts novels. The reason for his return wasn’t something he could explain in a few words. “Forget it. Anyway, I’m back. Jiangmiao Police Station. Heh, after all that, I’m back home.”

Both David Carter and Charles Wilson were children of workers at Andu First Cotton Textile Factory. The factory wasn’t in Andu city, nor even in Jiangkou county seat, but on the outskirts of Jiangmiao Town, forty kilometers from Jiangkou, and still five or six li from the town’s main street. Built in the late 1960s, it was an old factory—supposedly for military production at first, though that story faded away for some reason. A factory with thousands of people, built in a rural place that wasn’t even a county seat—no wonder the old workers always felt a bit regretful.

“Heh, you’re like Hu Hansan coming back again. The pretty girls in the factory are in trouble now.” Charles Wilson took another big gulp and joked.

“Damn, who are you comparing me to? Hu Hansan? I’m the one in tiger skin—are you calling me a Nationalist or a bandit?” David Carter didn’t mind. With classmates, there was no need for formality. Charles Wilson was a straightforward guy, always the first to jump into a fight—hence his nickname, Bangzi Ke. “Which workshop are you in now?”

“Machine repair.” Another swig, and Charles Wilson’s face turned a bit red, his pimples standing out even more. “Damn, my family has no connections. I wanted to get into the utilities workshop, but all the spots were taken long ago.”

David Carter noticed Charles Wilson was drinking fast. After so many years without much contact, he didn’t know how well the guy could hold his liquor—wouldn’t want him to pass out after just a few rounds. The machine repair workshop was an auxiliary unit in the textile factory—not much work, but also not much pay, and no perks. The utilities workshop, on the other hand, controlled the factory’s power and resources—naturally, it was a much cushier job.