“Wen’s father… was hit by a car,” Sheng’s voice came through the phone, taut like a stretched wire. “He’s dead.”

Yao got the call close to eleven at night. He’d just returned that afternoon to his home in a small town in south China. His son, Ming, had broken his arm playing basketball, and Yao had come to check on him. But before he could catch his breath, something had happened back in the village.

“I just went to the scene with Wen,” Sheng’s voice was faster than usual, breath ragged between words. “It happened less than a hundred meters from the village entrance. Someone hit him and fled. After that, cars kept passing… too dark to see. His body was crushed beyond recognition. What do we do?”

Yao tapped the table with his fingers. Once. Twice. Wen was his cousin, and Wen’s father had struggled with mental illness for over twenty years. The poor man wandered the streets alone, disheveled and ragged, like a vagrant. Wen’s family had long grown used to it. No one stopped him anymore. When hungry, he’d come home. Wen’s wife would leave leftovers in the kitchen—sometimes cold porridge, sometimes a few hard buns.

That road at the village entrance was especially dark at night, with no streetlights and speeding cars. The driver was unlikely to be found. Yao knew Wen’s family had little money. They still lived in a mud-brick house from two decades ago. A funeral would be a heavy burden. This tragedy couldn’t just end in silence. He had to do something.

“We need to move now,” Yao said, his voice firming. “Go tell the relatives and factory workers. Have them bring red yarn and wicker baskets.” He paused, listening to Sheng’s heavy breathing. “We’ll block off the road where the body lies, explain what happened to passing drivers, and ask—only if they’re willing—for a small condolence donation. It’s not mandatory. Anything is appreciated.”

“Red yarn? Wicker baskets?” Sheng sounded baffled.

“You really don’t know our customs,” Yao said, holding back his impatience at his business partner, who was over ten years younger and still green in moments like this. Sheng wasn’t from their village and didn’t know the funeral traditions. “Here, when someone gives condolence money, we give them a strand of red yarn in return. If drivers want to donate, they can place the money in the basket. That way they can express their sympathy, and we can show our gratitude in a proper way.” A wave of exhaustion washed over him, but he knew it wasn’t time to rest.

After he hung up, Yao turned to his wife, Ling. She had been sitting on the faded sofa, hands resting on her knees. From the way her brows were drawn and the downturn of her mouth, he could tell she’d pieced together most of what had happened. He explained briefly and told her he’d be leaving again early the next morning. He saw her throat move, as if she were swallowing words. She had just unpacked his clothes, and now would have to pack them up again. But she only nodded.

The next morning, the kitchen filled with the smell of eggs frying in lard. As the two kids sat at the table, Yao told them he’d be heading back to the brick factory. Something urgent had come up. Ming stuffed a bun smeared with peanut butter into his mouth; Xue stirred her rice porridge with her chopsticks. Both wore the same calm expressions as if he were announcing the weather. Their father had barely been home since he returned to the village to start a brick factory two years ago. They were used to life without him.

As their backpacks disappeared behind the banyan tree at the alley corner, Yao picked up his bag and left. The bus ride was long and bumpy. After five hours, it reached the village entrance just before noon. Yao stepped down and saw a sharp blue flash: three police cars sat on the roadside. Villagers clustered into a loose circle, murmuring like startled sparrows.

Yao pushed through. The stench of blood hit him hard. Wen and Sheng stood at the edge of the cordon. Wen’s eyes were bloodshot, and Sheng kept wiping sweat with his shirt hem. Not far behind them, a blood-stained plastic sheet covered a deformed mound. Half a twisted hand jutted out from the edge.

“When the police came, the relatives and workers ran with the baskets,” Wen said hoarsely, tugging at his shirt. “Red yarn scattered everywhere, but no one dared to pick it up.”

Yao patted his cousin’s shoulder. Nearly thirty now, Wen was an orphan. When Wen was seven, his newborn brother died. Their father refused to let the child be buried, clutching the tiny corpse and singing to it day and night. After that, something in him unraveled. Wen’s mother took on everything: farming, raising three children, tending a sick mother-in-law, and caring for a husband lost to madness. Yao had helped her in the fields when he still lived in the village. Three years ago, Wen finally found a woman willing to marry into the family. But mother and daughter-in-law clashed bitterly. To keep from wrecking her son’s marriage, Wen’s mother threw herself into the river. Now, his father was gone too. Misfortune never left this family.

Yao turned to the officers. Captain Zhao, the traffic officer in charge, scribbled in a notebook. Beside him stood Chief Li, who ran the local police station, arms crossed and silent. His brass buttons gleamed under the noon sun.

“You’re obstructing official duties,” Chief Li said, voice cold. “Obstruction of official duties. Illegal fundraising. Do you understand how serious this is?”

Yao pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket, took one out, and twirled it between his fingers. “I hear the Yuerong Dance Hall just got a new batch of Da Hong Pao tea. Why don’t we head over and try some?” He nodded toward the neon sign down the road.

They followed him inside. Noon light filtered through stained glass onto the hall’s patterned wallpaper, still smelling faintly of paint. Yao led them into a private room. He handed out cigarettes. Chief Li took his, tapped it three times, and lit up.

“You should’ve cleaned up the scene already,” Chief Li said, blowing a smoke ring, eyes narrowed. “The city’s detectives are on their way. If they get here first, you’re all in cuffs.”

Yao took a long drag, letting the smoke swirl in his mouth before exhaling. “With respect, Chief Li,” he said, tapping ash into the tray, “on what grounds? Which law have we broken?” He smirked inside. Trying to scare me? Amateur.

“Don’t play dumb! This is illegal solicitation!” Chief Li slapped the table. The teapot trembled.

Unfazed, Yao wiped tea off his hand. “Did you see anyone collect money?” he asked politely, as if consulting a teacher. “Do you have proof?”

“You think we don’t?” Zhang’s voice rose.

Yao leaned in, still all deference. “That’s why I’m asking. Please enlighten us. Show us the evidence so we know what to correct.”

Chief Li’s face darkened.

“You’re quite the scholar, aren’t you,” Captain Zhao finally spoke, his tone dry. He emphasized the word scholar with a bite. “Since you want a lesson, let me teach you something.” He stood, towering over Yao. “Those were your factory workers, weren’t they? You think they’d dare do this without your orders? A man died, and instead of calling the police, you set up a roadblock and ask for money? That alone could land you in prison.”

Yao noticed Captain Zhao’s hand resting on his baton. He leaned back, lips curving into a bitter smile. “Your lesson is well taken.” He tapped the table. “But if I may—do you recall the accident six months ago at this very intersection? A bus injured seven villagers.”

The air went still.

“Seven people,” Yao said, voice rising. “An old woman on crutches, a mother carrying her toddler… The evidence was solid. But what happened? Did the driver ever pay? Or is the file still gathering dust in the bottom drawer of your desk?”

Chief Li’s teacup clinked against the glass, but Yao didn’t shift his eyes. Captain Zhao was the one who mattered.

“My uncle was crushed last night,” Yao leaned forward, eyes fixed on Captain Zhao. “No lights. No cameras. If we had followed the rules and called the police, how would you have investigated? Wait a year? Ten? Until the driver grows a conscience and turns himself in?”

“You’re questioning law enforcement!” Captain Zhao snapped, slamming the table.

“Not at all,” Yao said, hands raised, tone sharpening. “But tell me—if there were any other choice, who would stand by the road at midnight collecting condolence money?”

“Don’t push your luck,” Captain Zhao warned. “You’ll regret it.”

“I mean no offense. I just want you to understand. There was no other way.” He let his voice catch, eyes flicking downward. “You saw the body. His son cried beside him…”

Captain Zhao coughed and tapped the table. “That’s enough about last night. You know what to do. Wrap it up, bury the man, and keep things quiet.”

Chief Li nodded and drained his tea. Yao stayed quiet. It was clear: they were letting it go. He didn’t know how much Wen had collected, but even a basic burial would cost thousands. They’d worked the whole night. Maybe it was enough. Still, he wanted more for Wen. He stubbed out his cigarette and glanced at Captain Zhao’s graying temples.

“Do you know anything about the man who died last night? He wasn’t just some random vagrant. He’d been sick for twenty years. His family barely held together under the weight of his illness. And now he’s gone, they can’t even afford a coffin.”

“Don’t play the sympathy card,” Captain Zhao said flatly. “I’ve seen more accidents than you can count.”

“Of course,” Yao replied. “But even the law allows room for compassion. A gesture from your division now would honor the dead and help the living.”

Captain Zhao stared into his tea. “This wasn’t our fault.”

“True,” Yao nodded, then softened his tone. “But not everything is about fault. Even a symbolic gesture would speak volumes.”

Captain Zhao frowned. “This is a separate issue—”

“Do you think the villagers see it that way?” Yao cut in, voice rising again. “They walk that road every day. Anyone could be next. The victim was left in pieces. And now, not even a yuan?”

“Enough!” Captain Zhao snapped. “We’re not responsible!”

Yao lowered his voice. “I’m only stating the obvious.” He leaned forward. “You know better than anyone. Things aren’t always black and white.”

Silence. The air conditioner buzzed. Chief Li shifted uneasily in his seat.

Captain Zhao took small sips of tea, then finally spoke. “What you’re asking… there’s no precedent.”

Yao stood, refilled their cups. “I understand. We’ll follow all procedures. And when people hear about this, they won’t dwell on the tragedy; they’ll remember your kindness.” He paused, letting the silence do its work, then added with emphasis. “I hear the city’s reviewing departments for the ‘People’s Choice’ award. If the traffic division were to offer humanitarian aid to a poor family right now…” He left the sentence hanging.

Captain Zhao’s eyes flickered. Yao noticed him tapping the table three times with his fingers—his thinking habit. He glanced at Yao. “You’ve made your point. We’re public servants. We should think like the people. Have them clean up the scene. Once things are in order, come to the station. We’ll provide 4,000 yuan in condolence support.”

Yao’s heart lifted, though he kept his face neutral. “Thank you. Wen’s family will remember this.” He stood and bowed, catching Captain Zhao exhale in relief.

“Make it clear it’s condolence money, not compensation,” Captain Zhao added.

“Of course,” Yao said. Then, almost in passing: “I know a reporter from the city paper… always eager to cover stories of empathy…”

Captain Zhao gave him a long look, then, unexpectedly, smiled. “Boss Yao, you really do know how to talk.” He stood and adjusted his uniform.

Yao followed, extending a respectful hand. “Thank you for your understanding. Everything will be handled properly.”

As they stepped out of the dance hall, the clouds pressed low and heavy. Yao narrowed his eyes against the light, scanning the street across from them. Wen stood near the darkened bloodstain. A few relatives wrapped the shattered body in plastic.

Thank God it hadn’t rained, Yao thought. Otherwise…He couldn’t bear to imagine the rest.

“Get him buried,” he murmured to Sheng, who had come to meet him. Then, glancing toward Captain Zhao, now starting the patrol car, he added, “I’m heading to the traffic division.”

Only then did he realize his shirt was soaked through with sweat.

– Huina Zheng