Lin Jianguo lay in bed, staring at the pitch-black ceiling.
There was no moon outside, and the room was so dark he couldn't see his hand in front of his face. But he couldn't sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, there was the sea of flames, his parents' faces lit by the fire, the names he'd called countless times but would never hear answered.
He turned over. The earthen kang was hard against his shoulder.
The day's events played over and over in his mind. The center director didn't believe him. His father didn't believe him either. They said he was talking nonsense, that he'd dreamed it, that he was just a kid who didn't know any better.
But he wasn't talking nonsense.
He really knew.
He heard the snoring from the next room—his father's, coarse and steady, like an old ox breathing. In the other room, his mother's breathing was very light, almost inaudible, but he knew she was there, sleeping peacefully, unaware of what would happen in sixty-eight days.
Lin Jianguo couldn't lie still any longer.
He sat up, felt for his clothes in the dark, put them on, stepped barefoot onto the floor, and groped his way to the door. The door hinge creaked. He stopped, listening carefully.
The snoring continued.
He gently pushed the door open and stepped into the yard.
The night wind was cold, slipping into his collar and making him shiver. He stood under the jujube tree and looked up at the sky. No stars—just thick clouds pressing low, as if about to collapse.
He stood in the yard for a while, then turned and walked toward the gate.
The latch was tight; he struggled to pull it open. The gate creaked. He stopped again and looked back.
Both windows were dark. No sound.
He slipped out and pulled the gate shut behind him.
He'd walked the road to the forestry center during the day, but at night it was completely different. No moonlight, the path invisible—he stumbled forward, stepping into muddy puddles more than once, cold mud seeping through his shoe cracks, icy against his skin.
But he didn't stop.
He walked for what seemed like a long time until he saw a few points of light ahead. The forestry center.
The office lights were off, but a dim lamp burned in the warehouse nearby—someone on night duty, probably. Lin Jianguo slowed down, hugging the wall, trying to make as little noise as possible.
The warehouse door was ajar, voices coming from inside.
"...these wires need replacing tomorrow. They're so old they're practically falling apart."
"Replace them? Just make do. The director says funds are tight."
"Make do? What if they catch fire one day?"
"Fire? They're not that easy to catch fire."
Lin Jianguo pressed against the wall, motionless, listening.
Wires.
A flash of insight struck him.
How had that fire started? The investigators later said it was old wiring—a short circuit in the warehouse, sparks landing on burlap sacks, the wind fanning the flames. They explained it clearly, explicitly.
But by then, it was too late.
What if...
Lin Jianguo felt his pocket. The pliers he'd brought from home that morning were still there, cold, pressing against his thigh.
He waited until the voices inside faded, until the night watchman seemed to have left, until that dim lamp went out. Darkness surrounded him, only the rustle of wind through the trees.
He waited a little longer. Then, crouching low, he crept to the side of the warehouse.
He'd observed during the day—the main electrical box was on the outside wall of the warehouse. A sheet-metal box, hanging on the brick wall, with a crack at the bottom where you could see the wires inside.
He groped along the wall until he found the box, then found the crack.
The crack wasn't large, but large enough to insert the pliers.
He pulled out the pliers. His hand was shaking.
He knew what he was doing. Cut the wires, the warehouse loses power, they'll have to inspect it, they'll find the old wiring, they'll replace it. There won't be a fire.
There won't be a December 20th.
He gripped the pliers. His hand shook more and more violently.
He remembered so many things. His father walking out the gate with a hoe over his shoulder. His mother sitting by the stove, picking over vegetables. That faded black-and-white photograph. His parents' smiles in the photo.
They still had sixty-eight days of smiles.
If he did nothing, they'd only have sixty-eight more days of smiles.
Lin Jianguo took a deep breath and inserted the pliers into the crack.
Cold metal pressed against his wrist. He felt around, touched the wires—one, two, three. He couldn't tell which did what, didn't need to. As long as he cut them, as long as—
"Who's there!"
A flashlight beam suddenly struck him, blindingly bright.
Lin Jianguo froze, the pliers still stuck in the crack.
Footsteps approached, the flashlight beam blinding him. He heard someone shouting: "Someone's stealing wires! Come quick!"
Then more footsteps, more flashlight beams, lighting him up like an actor on a stage.
A hand reached out, grabbed his wrist, snatched the pliers away.
"Damn, it's just a kid?"
Lin Jianguo finally saw who it was. One of the forestry center's forest rangers, surname Zhang, around thirty, with a tough face. He held the pliers, staring at Lin Jianguo with wide eyes.
"Whose kid are you? What are you doing here in the middle of the night?"
Lin Jianguo said nothing.
More people gathered around, flashlights blinding him. Someone recognized him: "Isn't that Lin Dasuan's kid? He was at the director's office this morning spouting nonsense."
"Lin Dasuan's kid?" Old Zhang yanked him closer. "Does your father know you're here?"
Lin Jianguo still said nothing.
"Come on, to the office." Old Zhang dragged him toward the building. "Let your father come get you."