In the fiery red era of the heavens, refrigerators are refreshed daily.

Chapter 72. Shame and Anxiety

Yang Guangming nodded vigorously, his jawline taut, each word clear and steady, like a pebble dropped onto the ground:
"Don't worry! I'm here! Your family's problems are my family's problems!"

There are no fancy words, only the simplest yet most profound promises between men, resounding with conviction.

Chu Dahu stared intently into Yang Guangming's eyes, as if trying to pierce through his pupils and reach the depths of his soul to confirm the weight of this promise.

A few seconds felt like an eternity.

Then, he grinned, and that familiar carefree smile instantly returned to his face, as if the solemnity from just moments before had never happened.

He patted Yang Guangming's shoulder forcefully, his voice regaining its booming quality: "That puts my mind at ease! I'm off! Don't see me off! You can't get me to northern Jiangsu anyway!"

After saying that, he turned around abruptly, shrugged his shoulders, adjusted the large coarse cloth bag to a more comfortable position, and strode off towards the bus stop without looking back.

That muscular back, under the blazing midday sun, resembled a moving mountain, carrying an indomitable courage and a resolute determination; every step it took on the asphalt seemed to echo.

The early summer sun poured down on Yang Guangming without any obstruction, making his skin feel hot, but it couldn't dispel the sudden surge of sorrow about parting in his heart.

He slowly turned around and moved his feet toward the Shikumen alleyway.

At the entrance of the alley, an old man selling popsicles drags his old wooden box with peeling paint, tapping out a monotonous and long rhythm with a well-worn wooden clapper, as if keeping time in check.

Yang Guangming walked over, took out some change, and bought a red bean popsicle.

He carefully peeled off a piece of wax paper with the faded red words "Zhongbingzhuan" printed on it, and put the cool, hard popsicle with a hint of sweet red bean paste flavor into his mouth.

A refreshing coolness slid down my throat, reaching my heart and temporarily relieving the dryness in my throat.

He walked slowly, his feet on the familiar bluestone path worn smooth by countless shoes.

This surging tide of the times carries everyone along, involuntarily heading towards their respective mist-shrouded distant horizons.

……

The two kilograms of milk powder that Yang Guangming gave to Zhou Bingsheng weighed heavily on Zhou Bingsheng's heart, far more so than its actual weight.

This feeling was as heavy as a cold, leaden stone, making his heart flutter with unease, yet it also carried an indescribable burning heat, scorching his pride.

On the market, a 400-gram can of Shanghai milk powder bearing the "Bright Dairy" trademark, with its gleaming glass jar, proudly occupies the most prominent position on the food store counter, priced at 2.4 yuan—several days' wages for an ordinary worker.

But the counter was mostly empty, like a gaping mouth starving of hunger, silently proclaiming the scarcity.

On the day the goods arrive at the store every month, before dawn, a long, winding line forms outside, the figures of people blurring and swaying in the morning light. Most of them are families with infants crying for milk, or elderly people who are ill and in dire need of nutrition.

The long queue of people stared intently at the tightly closed shop door, where a glimmer of hope for survival lay. But once the milk powder arrived, that meager hope vanished like snowflakes thrown into boiling water; within an hour, it was inevitably sold out, leaving only empty counters and a deeper sense of despair.

A small, pale yellow piece of paper, printed with "Special Baby Formula Ticket for Shanghai," carries the weight of an infant's nutrition and a family's hopes. In the hidden black market, it can fetch astonishingly high prices, making it a true form of hard currency.

While Yang Guangming's words were grand, Zhou Bingsheng, having been immersed in human relationships for decades, was certainly familiar with the unspoken rules.
If you want those precious milk powder coupons in someone else's hands, what can you exchange them for? The most reliable way is to use food coupons, oil coupons, meat coupons, cloth coupons, sugar coupons, etc., which are the most basic means of survival for a family. These coupons, which are issued monthly and in fixed quantities per person, are the cornerstone of tightening your belt and making ends meet.

In Zhou Bingsheng's family, these ration coupons were already carefully managed. Every single one was used sparingly, just enough to barely keep the family fed.

In order to get milk powder, he has already gritted his teeth and exchanged a lot of these hard-earned tickets, and his savings have been completely depleted. He can't squeeze out even a little bit more.

The two cans of milk powder that Yang Guangming provided for him, he will probably have to owe them, like carrying an invisible mountain on his back, to be slowly repaid in the uncertain "future".

Thinking that Yang Guangming must have incurred a huge debt of gratitude behind the scenes for these two cans of milk powder, Zhou Bingsheng felt the lead stone in his heart grow colder and harder, weighing heavily on him, causing a dull ache in his internal organs.

He tried several times to talk to Yang Guangming.

The words were on the tip of her tongue, but when she saw the young man's calm, gentle, and clear eyes, her courage deflated like a punctured balloon, and she swallowed them back down, turning them into a silent sigh deep in her throat.

Yang Guangming had said that they could "keep accounts" and return the ration coupons once the family had recovered. But those two words, "keep accounts," though seemingly casual, carried immense weight in Zhou Bingsheng's ears.

The seemingly endless wait was a torment akin to being slowly cut with a dull knife, an immense, invisible pressure that made him restless, unable to eat, and tossing and turning at night.

Zhou Bingsheng lived a life of poverty, and what he feared most was being indebted, especially to a young junior who had such a profound debt of gratitude. He always kept it in mind and hoped to repay it when he had the chance.

That afternoon, the office was unusually quiet.

Han Mingqian went out to a meeting, Zhang Yuqin went to the trade union to handle some business, and Li Weidong was called by the workshop to verify some key data.

In the vast space, only Zhou Bingsheng and Yang Guangming remained.

The sunlight streamed lazily in through the window, casting clear shadows of the window frames on the dusty cement floor, with tiny dust particles dancing in the beams of light.

Zhou Bingsheng put down the half-read copy of "Reference News" in his hand, and his gaze behind his thick glasses involuntarily fell on Yang Guangming, who was writing furiously at his desk across from him.

The young man stood ramrod straight, like a newly sprouted bamboo shoot, brimming with vitality.

This focus carries a calmness beyond his years, as if he is shut out from the noise of the outside world.

Zhou Bingsheng looked at him and vaguely recalled the night of Han Mingqian's family dinner, when Old Han sighed and lamented about his past.

I used to be just as spirited and ambitious, thinking that with my passion and talent, my future would be bright.

But now... his temples are graying, his glasses are thicker, and he is confined to this small place, having to rely on a young junior to exhaust all his connections to help his infant child!
(End of this chapter)