Arlo never hated his father. He understood that his father had high hopes for him, and his own failures had led to his father's despair. As the saying goes, "The deeper the love, the harsher the hate." Arlo's father was an uneducated and rough man, whose only way of disciplining children was through fists and sticks. Over the years, Arlo grew up under his father's beatings.
When Arlo dropped out of school two years ago, he was only 15 years old, but his tall stature inherited from his father made it hard for others to guess his age. It didn't take long for him to get a job as a loader.
Loading and unloading was physically demanding work, but Arlo never shied away from hard labor. His monthly income even surpassed that of his parents combined, finally giving them some hope that he wasn't entirely a lost cause.
However, not long after, Arlo fell in with a bad crowd—people with flashy hair and a decadent lifestyle. He felt that their image matched his own, so he dyed his black hair red, shaped his eyebrows thin and long, and wore tattered denim, resembling a real-life street gangster.
When Arlo's father saw him like this, he nearly beat him to death. Yet, Arlo refused to dye his hair back, standing his ground despite his father's fury. His red hair stayed, but it cost him over half a month bedridden.
A couple of days ago, at an antique market, Arlo encountered an old man selling goods on the street. The old man grabbed him firmly, took out a ring, and said, "Young man, I see you have extraordinary potential. The fate of saving the world lies with you. This is a family heirloom ring worth at least 2,000 bucks, but I'll sell it to you for just 100."
At the time, Arlo must have been out of his mind because he bought the ring without hesitation. Two days later, he realized he'd been scammed and rushed out early in the morning to find the old man, leading to the scene at the beginning of this story.
"Arlo, time for dinner," called Ma Min. Arlo put the ring on his finger and headed outside to eat.
Dinner was simple: stir-fried tomatoes with eggs, pickled vegetables, porridge, and steamed buns. Simple yet affordable and nutritious.
Arlo devoured the food, finishing every last bite. While Ma Min cleaned up the dishes, Arlo grabbed a dirty, tattered jacket. "Mom, I'm off to work."
"Arlo, I've left some water and a towel in the bike basket."
"Got it."
Arlo hopped onto an old bicycle and pedaled toward the wholesale market.
The wholesale market was the largest integrated market in Haitian City, supplying almost all the goods for local supermarkets and shops. Its vast scale provided numerous job opportunities for locals, including loading and unloading work.
Upon arriving at the market, Arlo didn't stop at any specific spot but wandered around aimlessly. Jobs in unloading often had to be actively sought out, and if you were too slow, the opportunity could vanish.
Soon, Arlo found a job unloading boxes of instant noodles. A whole truckload—about 500 or 600 boxes—had to be carried up to the second floor. Along with Arlo, there were four other workers. They agreed with the boss on a rate of 50 bucks each.
Relying on his strength, Arlo carried five boxes at a time. Each large box contained 50 packs of noodles, weighing at least 12 or 13 pounds each. Arlo made 50 trips, moving almost half the load himself. This lightened the work for the other four, who felt a bit guilty splitting the same pay with him.
"Arlo, you did the most. We'll each take 40 bucks, and you can have the extra 10," said a man in his thirties, attempting to hand over his share.
"Quit talking nonsense!" Arlo brushed him off and walked to his bike. Wiping the sweat off his face with a towel, he gulped down a large bottle of water Ma Min had packed for him and pedaled off to find his next job.
This was Arlo's survival strategy at the market: do more work than others but take the same pay. That way, he avoided resentment and even earned the goodwill of his peers, who preferred working with him. As a result, Arlo often earned the most money because whenever there was work, people would think of him first.
"Ah!" At 5:30 p.m., Arlo accidentally scraped his right hand against a wall while unloading, cutting his skin. Blood flowed freely.
"You okay?" one of the workers asked, concerned.
"I'm fine," Arlo replied, placing the goods in their spot. He checked his hand and found it bleeding heavily, even staining the ring on his finger.
"I'll go clean it. You guys can handle the rest. There's not much left anyway. I don't want any pay—split it among yourselves," Arlo said as he mounted his bike and headed to a public water pipe.
At the pipe, Arlo removed the ring and set it aside. He washed the blood from his hand and took a bandage out of his pocket to cover the wound. Carrying bandages had become a habit due to frequent minor injuries at work.
As Arlo was about to wash the ring, he noticed something odd: the blood on it had disappeared.
"Huh?" Arlo picked up the ring and examined it closely. There wasn't a single trace of blood left. "What's going on?"