Ten years ago, in a remote northern town, the practice of "lending chickens" was still common. Every spring, around March or April, hatcheries would send people out on bicycles or with baskets to deliver newly hatched chicks to rural households. The number of chicks and the customer's address were recorded, and payment was collected in the fall. These chicks were sold very cheaply—often for less than a yuan each.
By autumn, these chicks would grow into full-grown chickens, which could be sold for several dozen yuans each. This provided significant income for poor rural families. Often purchased on credit or through informal arrangements within the community, there was little upfront cost, and the only expense for the next four or five months was feed.
However, by 2010, even in rural areas, the practice was less common. Most young people had migrated to cities for work, leaving only the elderly behind. While raising a few chicks or ducklings was manageable for the elderly, raising a large number became too much work. The chicks had to be gathered daily, counted, and any missing ones had to be found. The effort was considerable, and the profit minimal.
Additionally, not all chicks survived until autumn. They were fragile, and it was considered a good outcome if eleven or twelve out of twenty survived.
Jiang Luxi fed the chicks and counted them by the dim light. The chicks were moving around, and the light was poor, making it hard to get an accurate count. After counting several times, she still couldn't be sure.
She crouched down, held a chick still, and counted again. This time, she could see clearly: there were 17 chicks. None were missing. She had bought 20 chicks in April, but 3 had died.
Although this survival rate was already quite high, Jiang Luxi had been upset when the chicks died.
"How many did you count?" her grandmother called from the kitchen, where she was tending to the stove.
"Seventeen," Jiang Luxi replied. "Not a single one is missing."
"You don't have to feed them too much anymore. You can sell them in a couple of days," her grandmother said.
"Okay, and then we'll have some extra money," Jiang Luxi smiled. "But i won't sell them all. We should keep a few. Your health isn't great, and you'll need to drink some chicken soup in the winter to nourish your body." Jiang Luxi added.
"I'm fine, Grandma knows her own body. My legs just aren't as strong as before. But everything else, like my eyes and ears, is still good. Look at Aunt Zhang, your neighbor. She's the same age as me, but she can't even speak clearly now. That's truly terrible. If I were like that, I'd rather not be alive."
Her grandmother chuckled. "Grandma, please don't say that. If you keep saying things like that, I'll get upset."
"Alright, alright, I was just teasing you. I haven't even seen you graduate from university yet, so how could I die now? I'm still waiting for the day you get into a prestigious university and bring honor to our family. In our Pinghu village, there aren't many college graduates yet." Jiang Luxi's grandmother laughed.
"Even if I get into university, you can't die. You have to stay with me forever and ever," Jiang Luxi insisted, her lips pursed.
"Okay, okay, I'll stay with my dear granddaughter forever and ever. I'll stay with my little Xi forever and ever," her grandmother chuckled.
"That's more like it," Jiang Luxi sniffed. "Don't ever say things like that again."
"I won't, I won't," her grandmother reassured her with a laugh. Jiang Luxi nodded, then went inside to grab some wheat bran. She stepped out the door and into the dark, narrow alleyway.
The alley was cloaked in darkness, the moonlight unable to penetrate its depths. Jiang Luxi stumbled over a stone, her right hand clutching the wheat bran, brushing against the rough, unpainted cement wall. A strip of skin peeled away, leaving behind a painful, bleeding wound.
She blew on her injured hand, a wry smile playing on her lips. "It's nothing," she murmured, though the pain was sharp. If only she had reacted quicker, used her palm to cushion the fall, she could have avoided the injury. But her grip on the wheat bran had been too tight, her instinct to protect the precious food overriding her concern for her own well-being.
She continued down the alley, her footsteps slowing as she reached its end. "Tuan Tuan, Yuan Yuan," she called softly, her voice filled with affection.
Two thin orange cats emerged from the tall grass, their eyes bright with recognition. They darted toward her, tiny teeth nibbling at her pants.
"Gently, now," she cautioned. "If you tear my clothes, Grandma will scold me again." She scooped one up, stroking its soft fur. "You must be hungry. I'm sorry I left so early this morning and forgot about you."
She placed the wheat bran on the ground and gently set the other cat down. As they eagerly devoured the food, she watched them with a tender smile, a sense of peace washing over her.
She had found them in the autumn of her ninth year—two tiny, nearly lifeless creatures, drenched in rain. She had nursed them back to health, defying the odds and the disapproval of her grandmother. Despite their humble circumstances, she had found joy in caring for these helpless creatures.
She had named them Tuan Tuan and Yuan Yuan, " inspired by a hopeful wish for her parents' return." But fate had dealt her a cruel blow, and that winter, she was forced to confront the harsh reality of their untimely deaths.
A young girl, barely nine years old, had been burdened with grief beyond her years. Yet, even in the darkest of times, she had found solace in the company of these loyal companions.