Though he’d turned down the tea tree, Qiao Ning still came home with three trees: the two osmanthus, as agreed, plus a Sichuan Pepper Tree Zhou Chunmei had wrangled for him.
Her sister’s family was building their new house and had dug up everything in the old courtyard—beside the two osmanthus, several Sichuan pepper trees.
Those her family meant to transplant into their own Vegetable Patch—homegrown Sichuan peppercorn was still edible, after all.
Qiao Ning and Zhou Chunmei had crossed paths at just the right moment, and she’d asked her sister for one pepper tree as a thrown-in extra for the osmanthus purchase.
Her sister was easygoing besides—Qiao Ning had paid a hundred yuan for trees she’d been about to chop for firewood, pure profit. At Zhou Chunmei’s request she agreed without much fuss, picking Qiao Ning out a pepper tree to haul home with the rest.
Qiao Ning was delighted too. Sichuan peppercorn—mere seasoning, and yet how many dishes couldn’t live without it?
Back in the village, he wanted to grow and eat everything, and with the Spirit Spring buff, it would all come out delicious.
Hauling trees there and back, plus loading time, took about forty minutes. By the time they got home, the excavator had only just arrived and was preparing to start.
The moment Qiao Ning returned, the Old Village Chief took his leave for home—he found the bustle tiresome, and once work began in earnest nobody would have time for him anyway.
Having seen him off, Qiao Ning ran over to watch the show. The trees stayed on the trike for now; unloading could wait till he’d had his look.
He Jiaming had sited the septic tank behind the house—first, because Qiao Ning’s Vegetable Patch was also behind the house, and the water purified through the tank’s third chamber would need outlet piping anyway; run it toward the garden and it fed the soil and spared Qiao Ning hauling water out to the vegetables.
If the garden ever needed more, he could supplement manually. Either way, less labor.
Second, there was a well in Qiao Ning’s courtyard. The tank would certainly be sealed properly against seepage, but the farther from the well, the better.
The well stood at the east end; the tank would go west.
“Not digging in the middle?” The excavator operator, seeing He Jiaming’s marked line, leaned out of his cab to confirm.
He Jiaming assumed the man meant the spot was too far west, and pointed to the other side. “There’s a well at the east end.”
Besides, Qiao Ning’s bedroom was on this side, and so would the Master Bedroom bathroom be. Very convenient.
“I know, you said.” The operator hollered back. “I mean, why not shift it further west? All this ground to work with.”
The penny dropped for everyone at once.
The Qiao and Ji courtyards had been built together, layouts alike—even sharing one stretch of courtyard wall. The operator had driven his machine straight around to the back without entering any gate, and likely never noticed the Ji family’s front door. He hadn’t known these were two households.
“This isn’t my house.” Qiao Ning said. “It’s the neighbor’s.”
His voice was perfectly even as he explained—but in his mind floated that Bronze Lock and Key, tucked away in his drawer.
“Oh, I see.” That settled, the operator said nothing more and fired up the excavator.
Qiao Ning stood behind the Ji house, watching the machine’s great claw bite into the earth, his gaze drifting somewhere far away.
After watching the excavator a while, Qiao Ning circled back to the front to unload the trees. Second Aunt Yang came chasing after—she’d gotten Little Tangyuan down for his nap and come straight over.
“Weren’t you planting these out back?” She stopped Han Tou, who was already hoisting a tree trunk down. “Hold off—drive the trike round back and unload there.”
Then, voice lowered for Qiao Ning: “Go have a look now and pick your planting spots. Once the excavator’s done with the tank, have him dig you two or three tree pits. Saves all that digging.”
Qiao Ning blinked. Second Aunt Yang thinks of everything.
“Will that cost extra, though? What’s a fair add-on?”
The excavator had been booked for the septic tank at an agreed size and price; adding to the man’s workload—Qiao Ning’s first instinct was to pay more.
“Extra? It’s two scoops of the bucket.”
Second Aunt Yang gave him a look. This Little Qiao—so very proper. “If your conscience itches, hand the man a pack of cigarettes. Done and done.”
Qiao Ning winced. “I don’t have any cigarettes…”
He didn’t smoke. Since the Spirit Spring Water had cleansed his body, his senses had grown strangely keen—even passing cigarette smoke on the street stung. Buying cigarettes himself was out of the question.
Without a beat’s hesitation, Second Aunt Yang said, “Dong Zhiyong will have some. Have him give it; pay him back for the cigarettes after.”
Qiao Ning was more puzzled than ever. If that was the plan, why not just add the cigarette money to the fee directly?
He didn’t understand—so he asked.
Second Aunt Yang shooed Han Tou off a distance, afraid he’d parrot it, then explained vaguely: “That excavator isn’t his…”
Ah. Now Qiao Ning got it. The excavator had another owner; the operator was hired by the machine’s owner, wages paid by the owner, and Qiao Ning’s fee went straight to the owner.
But digging three tree pits really was, as Second Aunt Yang said, a favor done in passing—a couple packs of cigarettes to the operator was pocket money, a tip.
Cash would change the meaning entirely.
The tangle of unwritten rules made sense now that he saw it, so Qiao Ning let it go—hauled the trees around back, unloaded them, and quietly raised the matter with Dong Zhiyong.
Dong Zhiyong answered in words and tone identical to Second Aunt Yang’s, agreeing at once: “Little thing. I’ll speak to him in a bit.”
Qiao Ning asked the cigarette price and transferred it over. Not expensive—Dong Zhiyong’s own smokes ran five yuan a pack, though he carried better ones on him; two ten-yuan packs went to the operator.
The excavator man took the cigarettes and, sure enough, raised no objection. Once the septic tank was dug, he dug three tree pits for Qiao Ning as well.
In the end, the osmanthus trees did not go into the Vegetable Patch. Qiao Ning chose to plant them a few meters behind the bedrooms—his own and Ji Baiqing’s. One on his side, one behind Ji Baiqing’s room.
What’s that? Taking up the Ji family’s land?
Ji Baiqing can come tell me so himself.
And if the man objected—fine, he’d dig it up someday and replant it in his own courtyard.
The Sichuan Pepper Tree went along the Vegetable Patch’s edge, close enough to catch a splash of water whenever he watered the vegetables.
Then the whole afternoon vanished into work. Dong Zhiyong, Dong the Third, and He Jiaming took charge of the septic tank.
Dong Zhiyong unpacked the morning’s materials and mixed mortar. Dong the Third might be a plumber-electrician by trade, but when anyone in the village raised a house, he lent a hand with the rest—he knew a bit of everything.
And He Jiaming, naturally, had finally returned to his proper calling.
Even this made Zhao Anran green with envy—she declared she’d rather come mix concrete for a septic tank than stay at the Village Committee mediating villagers’ quarrels.
Dong Xiaohui, ordered by his father to mix mortar, embodied pure teenage rebellion—too scared to defy his father outright, he mumbled about going to help Qiao Ning plant trees instead.
Trees planted and Root-Setting Water poured, he moved on to helping plant vegetables. A little dramatic, a mouth that never quit—but the boy could work, and far better than Qiao Ning the total novice.
Quick hands set seedlings and tucked soil; passing Qiao Ning, he gave a little hmph and muttered, just loud enough, “Eldest Young Master“—then worked faster.
Qiao Ning bit down hard on his laughter, afraid Dong Xiaohui would hear.
Helping in his vegetable field, and calling him “Eldest Young Master” once—what of it? He’d take it as an honorific.
Trees in the ground, Second Aunt Yang came to help with the vegetables too. On her way over after dropping Little Tangyuan home, she’d detoured past Aunt Xiuying’s and gotten Qiao Ning a batch of sweet potato tip cuttings—white roots already sprouting. Ready to plant.
Zhou Chunmei, seeing the day devoted to planting, hadn’t gone home to dig up her flower divisions; she came to help in the garden as well.
And Han Tou—Second Aunt Yang set him digging furrows, working ahead while the women planted behind.
Many hands, light work. Alone, all those seedlings and seed packets would have taken Qiao Ning ages.
With everyone helping, the whole lot went into the ground that afternoon, watered once at the end.
Qiao Ning’s notes app gained another page of things to buy—he’d be making another County Town run within days.
After the long day, he was asleep almost the moment his head hit the pillow, phone barely touched.
The next morning he was up early again—Dong Zhiyong and Dong the Third were coming to work, and the host of the house could hardly still be in bed when his workmen arrived.
Alarm rung, Qiao Ning lay staring at the ceiling for a while.
Wasn’t I coming home to Lying Flat? Why does coming back feel like running a marathon?
But on reflection: brand-new arrival, nothing but an empty house to his name. Busy was normal, for now. Once everything found its rhythm, it would calm down.
Present busyness purchased future Lying Flat.
Yes. That’s the story.
And so Qiao Ning stayed busy for several more days straight.
The rice couldn’t wait any longer—hire people to plow and transplant, fast. For this he hired out everything, leaning hard into his frail-health persona. Nobody thought him lazy for it: poor Little Qiao had a weak constitution, couldn’t manage heavy labor—just look at that pale little face.
The village had ox-keepers; he hired one to bring an ox and plow his fields, several passes back and forth—the land had lain fallow far too long.
Meanwhile Qiao Ning bought rice seedlings, soybean seeds, sweet potato seedlings, and corn seed.
Two kinds of sweet potato seedlings: one prized for taste, one starchy and heavy, bred specifically for sweet potato noodles.
Corn too, in sweet and glutinous varieties. This was for his own table, not yield, so he skipped the high-output, mediocre-tasting kinds.
Once plowed, he hired planting out as well.
Village labor rates were almost insulting. Qiao Ning had asked Second Aunt Yang about prices: hiring a transplanting hand cost eighty yuan a day, dawn to dusk—and a skilled hand could set out over two mu in a day.
His two mu of paddy: one person, one day, done. Eighty yuan—and the village aunties and grannies fought over the job. Even some of the great-grandmothers reckoned they could manage it.
Second Aunt Yang had wanted the money herself, but since Qiao Ning had come to her for information, recommending herself felt unseemly. She recommended another auntie instead: Hu Chunlan.
Hu Chunlan had a tragic lot. Married in from another village, her child barely born when her husband died in a worksite accident away from home.
