Night fall brought more sweltering heat.

The fire beneath the spit had grown under the watchful gaze of Qian Na Na, and the children that playfully threw twigs and branches they’d collected from the fields. An animal was placed to roast above the hot flames – it emitted a delicious aroma that smelled gloriously of spices, herbs, and despite the happenings: home.

Yang found himself watching the rollicking fire, mesmerised in his thoughts. Since returning, Yang had holed himself up in Ah Na’s room. He had pulled one of the wooden stools up to the window, and stared out into the rolling planes of yellow and green strawberry plants and the roasting supper in the distance.

The dust from the walk to the home still clung to him; he itched uncomfortably, though it was not so much from the dirt. Lately, it seemed Yang had been warding off the devil himself. Every decision Yang made led him straight into misfortune. No matter how hard he worked to settle down, to fight for his dreams, to survive, the world was simply against him. There was no other interpretation for Yang’s run of adversity except divine intervention. Would that make it better? To believe that some force above was controlling all of this, watching, perhaps even laughing? Yang didn’t feel better thinking that – he didn’t feel worse either. A sort of emptiness haunted him now. His home gone. His family gone. Maya gone. Everything he dared hold dear slipped through his fingers like grains of sand.

When the darkness shrouded fully, the farmers, farmhands and current residents of Yang’s old home gradually began to gather around by the flickering flames. Na Na made it a note to rap twice on the door as a non-verbal cue to ask him to come outside. Qian Qiao Bo approached the spit first, rolling up his sleeves – armed with a large machete – seeming rather like the leader figure of this outskirts coterie. Yang wondered whose idea it was to convert his home into a charity house – he wondered with unblinking eyes set directly on Qian Qiao Bo.

Outside, the night air was gentle on Yang’s skin. Against his better judgement, he relaxed into the night. The roast was sliced into at last, and the rumbling in Yang’s belly intensified. He knew the familiar pang of hunger too well. Clean cut slices of meat were passed around and Yang bit into his savagely, savouring the hot, succulent flavour on his tongue. He closed his eyes; he could taste the faint hint of paprika and honey marinated into the flesh. It had struck him as strange that they could afford to sacrifice such a fat creature when he swore he remembered Na Na mentioning a rising famine. But as soon as the pit in his stomach was warmed with food and water, those thoughts curdled and echoed into the sky like a lost memory.

With a full stomach, the world changes – Yang realised. Suddenly, things weren’t so bad anymore. It did rank somewhere in the top ten of his worst days ever, but it was less daunting now that he was not starved and hapless as well as intimidated. He could face this – he had survived much worse (his meal threatened to be upended by the resurfacing memory of Isaiah’s torture). He had thrived in less flourishing conditions (his meal threatening to be upended by the resurfacing memory of wordless Maya amidst a backdrop of sandy, sweat stained India).

He would find a way to make it out semi-alive. This was his hometown. He was surrounded by the community he grew up in, by friends and family. He would rebuild – even if he had to layer every brick with his bare hands, alone. He had faced off worse conditions. He would not break now. He had not endured so much to surrender.

If something is too good to be true; it isn’t.

But Yang didn’t need to worry about that – things weren’t good. They were awful. Could things get worse? Yang couldn’t say and he wasn’t about to tempt fate with undue assumptions. This was his country, and his people, but he sat alone. It would take some time familiarising himself with the old, and ingratiating himself into the community again. Perhaps donating the house would help – if only a little. He couldn’t help but note the way their eyes swept over his short hair and English styled clothing. He couldn’t help but think they somehow felt entitled to his birth right.

He would let them have it, though it hurt – like a twisting knife in his gut. And he knew that feeling very well – it wasn’t too long ago that he had a twisting knife in his gut. And he would use that as the foundation for restarting his life here. This was China; he was Chinese – this was where he belonged if he belonged nowhere else. And Yang knew he didn’t belong anywhere else. He’d seen ‘anywhere else’ first hand and the horror had sent him running. It was clear – clear as a cloudless sky – that China was the only pure place, unblemished by human sin and need. And because of that, nowhere else would suit him – he could not live among savages.

Feeling the eyes of the feasting families on him, Yang returned to the Qian’s farm house with clear intentions. Maybe after he explained himself to Na Na ayi and Qiao Bo shushu, he would find them sympathetic to his cause. Maybe they might even offer him haven for a while, as he struggled back to regain his footing in Beisha and its outskirts. Yang never had a talent for agriculture and despite his parents attempts, never managed to cultivate one either. A sign, perhaps? He might find work within the village more suited to his interests. A spike of hope coursed through his veins.

“He had been gone for long enough. He will not be missed.”

Yang paused at the kitchen backdoor; it was slightly ajar and through the slit he could see the contemplative faces of the farmer and his wife.

“They will not mind seeing him go,” Na Na said, taking a seat at their wobbly table. Yang’s eyebrows furrowed.

“No one will,” said Qiao Bo with a sigh. “Times are too desperate for sentimentality.”

Na Na stared at her husband for an elongated moment. “Times are always desperate. This is but a large step. A large sacrifice.”

There was frustrated lilt to Qiao Bo’s response. “A sacrifice that will keep us all alive for a lot longer. Some people are rebelling. You know that.” Qiao Bo’s hands clenched. For some reason, Ling ayi’s words echoed in the recesses of Yang’s mind: “Please don’t.”

Na Na remained eerily calm. “Then we will do what must be done – as we have always,” she eyed her husband’s balled fists. “And we will remain objective whilst doing it. Your handle on your emotions is weakening.”

“It frightens me that yours is not.”

Na Na smiled unaffectedly.

Yang inhaled, and pushed the door open. “Ayi, shushu – is something the matter?”

Na Na’s smile did not falter. Qiao Bo glanced up in surprise. “Yang,” he said. “Are you not hungry?”

“I’ve already eaten,” Yang said.

Na Na tilted her head to the left. “You know it is not easy to come across food in this time of need,” she said. “I hope you know better than to expect this every night.”

Her words were playful; Yang flashed her smile. Then he sobered up: “If I may – then why did you serve up such an enormous animal?”

Qiao Bo took the seat opposite his wife. “Hope is good,” he said to Yang. “Hope is invigorating and inspiring. Sometimes we must sacrifice a few day’s rations for a memorable night of celebration. It gives the people hope – something to look forward to.”

Yang could not fault that logic. “I heard you speaking of sacrifice before I came in,” he apologised.

Na Na nodded understandingly, Qiao Bo sighed. “You remember the mule we rode with on our journey from Canton? It is one of the few live animals left. If we dry and preserve the meat, we will not go hungry for a long time.”

“What’s the downside of this decision?”

“There will be nothing to plough the fields with,” Qiao Bo admitted. “If the horse is gone.”

“But that will not matter,” said Na Na. “Nothing will grow anyway.”

Qiao Bo’s eyes flashed. “We have one more harvest left,” he defended.

“A rotted harvest,” commented his wife.

Yang stood there awkwardly. “Perhaps I should go,” he said, thinking he’d reveal his plans to the couple later. Now was clearly not a good time.

Na Na gave him a weary smile. “We can talk in the morning.”

Yang made a move to leave.

“But if you’re going outside, perhaps it is wise to check on the mule before retiring?” Qiao Bo said. “It is in the stables out front.”

Yang nodded. “Of course,” he said. It was a small favour for all the Qians’ had done for him.

The Qians’ argument haunted Yang as he made his way to the stables. They took their responsibility over those who lived on the outskirts seriously. What had even given them that power to begin with? Did they just step up and assume it? Thoughts circulated Yang’s mind. It was all rather strange – no one seemed to outwardly oppose them…though Yang had only been in Beisha for less than day, so he wasn’t concrete on such knowledge. Was it Qian Qiao Bo who offered up Yang’s family’s house after his parents passed on? Where even were his parents and why hadn’t anyone pointed him to a grave or resting place of some sort?

Yang bade himself to check on the horse and then rest. He was too tired to openly ponder on all the mysteries that currently shrouded his hometown. Exhaustion weighed down upon him heavily.

The touch of night had warmed, even if just a little. Yang made his way to croaking wooden stables. Endless fields stretched out in every directed, with only a dirt road cutting through it all. It was claustrophobic – all this space and emptiness. Maya had used the word before – it was when you were confined and felt suffocated. It was when the confinement bred fear and anxiety into you. With the vast range of possibilities around him, Yang felt enclosed by them. He felt swallowed by the waves of dying plants and loose sand. He felt claustrophobic; the openness oddly haunting.

The stable lay to his extreme right – a dilapidated structure with the end side caved in. Perhaps the farmer and his wife did not see it profitable to repair; nothing would live there anyway. Two stalls were left standing, with bare minimum coverage: cracks in the ceiling and wood that ached and groaned like a withered man. From within, the horse growled. ‘Neighed’ seemed too tame a word. Inhaling a breath of night air and courage, Yang stepped into the unlocked stable. He had temporarily forgotten how much he hated (and feared) the thing; it was hulking, with demonic eyes and bloodstained teeth.

Wait.

Yang squinted at the horse through the moonlight. Bloodstained teeth? The horse was locked behind the stall door – he was safe, he reminded himself, before edging closer. The horse hovered dangerously over the weak stall door, its teeth bared, saliva leaking out of the sides of its wide mouth. Without warning, the horse dipped down and began chewing. Yang hesitated. What was he doing? The horse was fine…he could go now. No need to linger. But Yang felt compelled.

Suddenly, the horse lifted its head and elapsed in a deafening bray. Yang threw himself back in fright, his back hitting the stable wall. The horse made eye contact; black eyes boring into Yang. For a moment, Yang wandered if this was how he would die. His mind flashing back to the moment he met Maya, in a similar position: back against the stable wall, the moon eavesdropping.

Yang swallowed a large gulp of air, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. Something had fallen out of the horse’s horrific mouth hold during its performance. Yang pushed himself to inch closer. In the sand, soaked in red saliva, with dried grass stuck to its form, was an achingly familiar rag doll. The edges were ragged, the thread threatening to unravel, the fabric reminiscent of old dish cloth. Yang’s eyes sparked with recognition: Xue Da’s doll.

It was an obsession really, that the boy had with the stuffed material doll. He treasured it, cherished it, and never left it a moment’s peace. It was the memory of Xue Da’s fierce devotion to the doll that tipped the icy bucket of realisation over Yang’s head; something was dreadfully wrong. Xue Da would never leave the doll alone – not willingly.

Heaviness settled in his chest. Why was the doll here? Yang took another step toward the stall. With clenched fists, he leaned over the rotting wood. Inside the stall was a trough of water and…a trough of –

The horse’s jaw snapped shut on Yang’s shoulder.

Yang screamed.