She laughed happily, and the wrinkles spread from the corners of her eyes across her whole face, impossible to hide—not that she ever thought of hiding them. For a woman who had never used face cream, let alone makeup, she would never stand in front of the mirror lamenting the ruthlessness of time. She patted Brian Brooks's head; when she smiled, her eyes would squint, but there was always something unique in her gaze, just like her son. She said, “Why bother being pretty? Being a good person is better than anything. Henry doesn’t care about that.”

Brian Brooks pouted and said, “I care.”

Brian Brooks and his mother ate on the kang bed-stove. After roughly tidying up, that big oaf with his silly habits would always take his bowl and squat by the door to eat, shoveling food in huge mouthfuls, like a starving ghost reincarnated. Every time his mother said, “Henry, eat slower,” the big guy would turn his head with a goofy, clean smile, cheeks bulging with food. At this, Brian Brooks would put on a stern face and say, “No smiling!” and the big guy would obediently stiffen his face and turn back to tackle the not-so-greasy food in his bowl.

The middle-aged woman looked at her sons and smiled knowingly. The whole village said one was no good and the other was a fool, but in her eyes, they were undoubtedly the best. She picked out a chunk of fatty stewed meat and put it in Brian Brooks's bowl, then took the last, slightly smaller piece and smiled at Henry, who was squatting by the door: “Here, take it.”

The big guy hurried over with his bowl, carefully placed the meat inside, and beamed with joy. Brian Brooks shot him a look and was about to give his own piece of fatty meat to Henry, but his mother tapped his chopsticks and said, “This is for you. Henry has his own meat.”

Brian Brooks had no choice but to give up, while Henry grinned even wider, happily returning to the doorway to gnaw on his meat. The big guy would lower his head, purse his lips against the fatty meat, and then suddenly suck it in, the slippery meat sliding right into his mouth, leaving his lips greasy. Then he’d quickly shovel in more rice, using the burst of flavor to finish off most of his bowl in one go, then pat his belly in satisfaction, as if that piece of venison, half the size of the one in Brian Brooks's bowl, was the most delicious thing in the world.

“Look at you, you bear.” Unable to stand Henry's eating posture, Brian Brooks couldn’t help but laugh and curse.

The woman laughed, naturally covering her mouth with her hand. But even if she didn’t, she had a mouthful of white teeth, nothing like the yellowed, fishy mouths of the other villagers in Zhangjiazhai. In fact, if you looked closely at this most ordinary, authentic northeastern village woman, you’d notice her nails were neatly trimmed, her speech was slow and gentle, her expression calm and soft. The phrase “unmoved by favor or disgrace,” which even scholars envied, seemed to have been quietly cultivated in this rural woman.

Outside, the black dog barked. Brian Brooks's expression changed slightly; the black mongrel never barked at villagers for no reason. After finishing his meal, the big guy Henry put down his bowl and went out. Soon, he returned with an unexpected guest in tow, who stood at the doorway, not in a hurry to enter, first surveying the room’s layout, then smiling politely at the middle-aged woman: “Auntie, hello.”

“Hello.” Brian Brooks's mother replied, her Mandarin not perfect, but much better than the other villagers in Zhangjiazhai. Still, it was clear she was a bit nervous at seeing such a stranger. After all, she was just a farmer who had spent her life facing the earth, not some worldly sage. Hearing the awkward address “Auntie” for the first time, she felt a bit flustered.

“You?” Brian Brooks asked in confusion.

Although the baseball cap was off, the black-rimmed glasses and camouflage outfit made Brian Brooks recognize this woman who liked taking photos. Of that hunting party, she was the only one Brian Brooks had any fondness for, but he didn’t think he was the type of man a woman would fall for at first sight. Good luck like that never came to him, Brian Brooks. He wasn’t stupid, so instead of admiring her delicate features, he put on a stern face and said, “You’ve got your eye on Henry’s bow, haven’t you? Not for sale. No matter how much you offer, it’s not for sale!”

“Really not for sale?” the young woman asked with a smile.

Brian Brooks shook his head.

“I’ll offer twenty thousand,” she said softly, always with that calm, unruffled demeanor that made people feel she was looking down from above.

“Then I’ll think about it. I have to ask Henry.” Brian Brooks changed his stance with astonishing speed, his sullen face instantly brightening.

The big oaf beside the young woman just grinned foolishly. Anyway, all the big decisions at home were made by Brian, so he never got involved. Besides, his brother was known as the sly one in the village—any advantage Brian took from him would be paid back double. For example, this time, Zhang Niusheng, who always joked that Henry would never get a wife, would probably end up with two fewer cups of medicinal wine. And if any unsavory rumors ever spread in the village—like who was stealing whose wife in the cornfield—nine times out of ten, it was that scoundrel Little Brian who started it.

Brian Brooks's mother secretly pinched him and whispered, “You can’t sell that bow.”