The First Night
A short story from Longlight · Lunar New Year's Eve
10:00 p.m.
The snow has been falling since the afternoon, and the roads of this county town have all but disappeared.
The road out of town is closed. There isn't a single bar of signal. Even the store's landline has gone dead—the line outside snapped under the weight of the snow, and the two ends hang in midair, swinging every time the wind picks up.
The whole street is dark. Only Longlight Convenience Store is lit.
Longlight Convenience Store, open twenty-four hours. Tonight's night shift is yours. New Year's Eve pays triple; that's what you told Mom, anyway.
At ten o'clock sharp, Zhou comes out of the back room. He's in his sixties, thin and hard, his face giving nothing away.
"Keep the lights on tonight."
Zhou sets his ring of keys on the counter and pulls his coat tight. His hands pause on his scarf, and he adds one more thing:
"An old man comes in at four for oden. Two portions. One goes in a bag. Fill it with broth and tie it tight."
You say all right. He doesn't move, as if there's something else. You say all right again.
Only then does he push the door open and go out. The bell over the door rings once. The snow soon covers his footprints.
You pocket the keys and walk to the door to look. The lamp is mounted above the doorframe: an old shade, rusted at the rim. The bulb is yellow, and its light reaches two or three meters at most. Beyond that, there's only snow.
You don't know why he made such a point of the lights.
10:30 p.m.
The door bangs open, and in comes a young woman in a delivery uniform, stamping her feet, her helmet caked with snow. She hugs the helmet to her chest, and snow slides off it.
"Ugh, I'm freezing," she says with a laugh. "My bike died out there. Can't even push it. Mind if I warm up in here?"
You say sure.
She picks a seat by the heater, her phone never leaving her hand. After a while of scrolling she looks up and starts chatting: are you new here, does the store get busy at night, aren't you going home for New Year's?
You say no.
"Same here," she says.
She tells you she does admin work in Shanghai, came back for the holiday, and is running a few deliveries for an old classmate while she's here. It comes out smoothly, like something she's said many times before.
"Don't go near that bend out front," she says, as if she's just remembered. "After midnight it ices over and you can't keep your feet. I fell there last week."
11:30 p.m.
The second one weaves in.
He reeks of liquor, somewhere in his forties. He takes a bottle of baijiu off the shelf, stops on his way past the toys, and picks up a stuffed rabbit.
"For my little girl," he tells you, though you didn't ask.
He sits down in the corner, twists the cap off, takes a swig, and starts talking at you. Twenty years at his work unit. How well the place is doing. How this year's bonus came to tens of thousands.
"Brother, let me tell you," he says, loud across two tables, "the way the world is now, a man needs a trade."
The delivery rider glances up from her phone, then back down.
11:40 p.m.
The third is a girl who looks to be in high school, snow all over her.
She has a drawing tube slung across her back, round and worn pale, covered in a few faded stickers. She walks straight in without looking at you.
She buys a bread roll and a bottle of hot water, sits down by the window, hugs the tube to her chest, and then doesn't move.
After a while you go over to wipe the table next to hers and ask if she's waiting for a bus.
"Mm."
"First bus is at five-fifty."
"I know."
She doesn't say anything after that. Outside the window is the bus stop; the blue sign clangs in the wind, half a foot of snow piled beneath it.
She keeps looking at it.
11:50 p.m.
The door opens again.
Zhou comes in, covered in snow. You're about to ask why he's back, but he doesn't even look at you. The moment he's through the door, his eyes go straight to the girl by the window.
To her school uniform, to be exact.
"This late, and on your own?" He stays where he is, staring at the uniform. "Stay away from the bus stop. Sit inside."
She doesn't even look up. "Where I stay is your business now?"
Zhou opens his mouth.
You wait for him to go on. He doesn't. He pulls his coat around him and goes back out. The bell over the door rings again.
The girl hasn't moved, still hugging the tube, still looking out the window.
You look at her, then at the door.
Midnight
Somewhere far off, fireworks go up. Through the heavy snow they're only a few dull blooms of light, and the sound arrives blunted, as if from under a thick quilt.
The phone in your pocket buzzes.
One rare bar of signal. The screen says: Mom.
You watch it buzz. On the fourth buzz, you answer.
"Hello? Did you have your dumplings yet? How are things over th—"
The signal drops, then comes back: "...take care of yourself..."
Then nothing. You say hello twice. The bar on the screen is already empty.
You put the phone back in your pocket and stand there for a while.
12:01 a.m.
The delivery rider's phone rings.
She glances at the screen, gets up, and goes behind the shelves. She turns her back and lowers her voice.
"Mom... Yeah, I'm in Shanghai. Working overtime, can't get away..."
You're wiping down the counter. Your hand stops for a moment.
"You go ahead and eat, don't wait for me."
She hangs up and comes back around the shelves, already smiling. When she sees you looking, she shoves the phone into her pocket.
"My mom. Every year, same thing."
You say oh.
She sits back down and goes back to scrolling.
1:00 a.m.
The drunk's voice gets quieter and quieter, then stops. When you go over to check, he's asleep, slumped over the table, one hand still resting on the bottle.
His coat pocket hangs open. A corner of white paper sticks out, folded over several times.
You move the bottle a little farther from his hand. You don't touch the paper.
3:00 a.m.
The door is stamped open.
In comes a truck driver in his fifties, in a heavy coat, stamping the snow off his boots. There's frost on his eyebrows; the moment he hits the warm air it starts to melt and drip.
His eyes are shot with red.
He grabs two cans of energy drink, a pack of cigarettes and a cup of instant noodles, pays at the counter, fills the cup with hot water and sits down to eat. He tosses his truck keys onto the counter with a clatter.
"What a night," he says.
You say it is.
"Not a single car on the road." He slurps his noodles. "Everyone's home eating."
You ask where he's headed in such a hurry.
"Home," he says. "Too late for New Year's Eve dinner. Maybe I'll make it for the first day."
You tell him the roads are bad, maybe rest a bit before he goes on.
He waves it off. "Eh, I've done this run plenty. I'm used to it. I can take it."
When he says I can take it, his voice comes out a little louder than before.
3:20 a.m.
He gets up and heads for the restroom.
His truck keys are still lying on the counter.
Brass, a big ring of them, with a faded charm hanging off it. Under the counter light you can see them clearly.
You look at them for a while.
At 3:25 he comes out of the restroom, scoops up the keys and pockets them.
3:40 a.m.
The edge of the table jabs the drunk awake. He mumbles something, slumps back down for a while, and finally pushes himself upright.
He rubs his neck and stares out the window, his eyes still unfocused.
He sits like that for a good ten minutes without a word.
He doesn't seem like the same man who was bragging earlier.
4:00 a.m.
An old man comes in, brushing the snow off his coat.
He's around seventy, in an old padded jacket and a cotton cap. He moves slowly, but he stands steady. He goes over to the oden counter and looks for a while.
"Sorry to trouble you, kid," he says. "Two portions."
You dish them up. He stands beside you and waits, watching you work.
"Plenty of broth."
He carries one to the window and eats slowly. The other you pack the way Zhou told you: filled with broth, in a plastic bag, tied tight. He doesn't take it right away. Only when he's finished his own does he tuck the bag inside his coat and press it once from the outside.
You can't help asking: two, huh?
He looks up at you.
"Mm."
He doesn't say any more. You don't ask again.
4:50 a.m.
The old man stands, pulls his coat closed, and goes out with the bag tucked inside it.
You watch him through the window. He doesn't head down the street, either way. He walks to the bus stop right outside, stops at the edge of the platform, and stands there.
There's no bus. There won't be one at this hour.
5:00 a.m.
Since waking up, the drunk has just sat there. He hasn't touched the bottle again.
At five sharp he stands, picks the stuffed rabbit up off the table, brushes off dust that isn't there, and tucks it inside his coat.
He goes to the door and looks back at the store, as if he wants to say something.
In the end he says nothing and goes out.
5:20 a.m.
The old man stands at the bus stop for a long time.
He never sits down. Snow settles on his shoulders and he doesn't brush it off.
At 5:20 he's ready to go. Before he leaves, he picks up the oden on the bench, then sets it back down.
Then he walks slowly away.
5:30 a.m.
A snowplow rumbles past, its lights blazing across the door. The road is open.
At the sound of the plow, the driver sits bolt upright.
"It's open," he says.
He stands and pats the keys in his pocket.
5:35 a.m.
Two things happen almost at once.
The high-school girl stands, shoulders her drawing tube, pushes the door open and heads for the bus stop.
The driver finishes the last half can of his energy drink, gives you a nod, and goes out too.
You stand behind the counter and watch the truck's headlights come on and sweep across the door.
He pulls out onto the road.
The bend is right outside.
5:47 a.m.
At the bus stop, the girl takes half a step toward the edge of the platform to see if the bus is coming.
First, brakes. A long screech.
Then a deafening crash.
Then white light.
In the white light the floor drops out from under you, and your ears ring.
10:00 p.m.
You come to with a jolt. Your hands are braced on the counter, your head still heavy and foggy. The clock on the wall says ten sharp.
Zhou comes out of the back room. In his sixties, thin and hard, his face giving nothing away.
"Keep the lights on tonight."
You've heard this before. Last night he stood right here and said it, word for word.
Zhou sets his ring of keys on the counter and pulls his coat tight.
You open your mouth.
He pushes the door open and goes out. The bell over the door rings once. The snow soon covers his footprints.
The clock on the wall keeps ticking. 10:01.
At ten-thirty, a young woman with a snow-caked helmet will push the door open.
At eleven-thirty, someone reeking of liquor will weave in and buy a bottle of baijiu and a stuffed rabbit.
At eleven-forty, a girl with a drawing tube will sit down by the window.
At three, someone will stamp in with frost on his eyebrows.
At four, an old man will ask for two portions of oden.
At 5:47, there will be brakes on the bend.
Your palms are slick with sweat.
Outside, the snow is still falling. The lamp over the door is lit.
This time, you know you have to do something.