“How did the old man go?”
Guo Weixiang’s tears immediately welled up again, and after a while, he choked and shook his head.
“The virus suddenly broke out from the research institute. During the evacuation, it was chaotic. He insisted others leave first, taking the password and key to close the underground third-layer safety gate… He was almost eighty and originally had nothing to do with this. He applied for emergency permissions at the last minute.”
“I didn’t even get to say goodbye to him,” Guo Weixiang’s nose was red. “The day I left, the military vehicle passed through the compound gate.”
You asked me if I wanted to stop for five minutes to say goodbye to the old man… but I was afraid of being seen as seeking special treatment, so I refused. Why didn’t I go in? Why didn’t I go in, not even seeing him one last time…
Zhou Rong lit a cigarette for himself, lowering his eyelids in the lingering white smoke.
Guo Weixiang had a gray iron box by his side, about the size of an ordinary shoe box, sealed with a gold and red ribbon. Zhou Rong knew what it was—a memorial box containing miscellaneous items used by Deputy Director Guo before his death.
A fountain pen, a handwritten notebook, reading glasses, and at least half a box of commendation certificates and military medals.
“You’re a 118,” Zhou Rong said in a low voice, “The old man always boasted about this to others. He would die peacefully knowing this.”
Guo Weixiang shook his head while crying, muttering that Rong ge didn’t understand.
“He originally wanted me to do something else. I insisted on joining the special forces… I wanted to prove myself, to prove a point, and I shouted at him that I wanted to realize my own dream… But he actually just wanted his only grandson to stay safely by his side…”
Guo Weixiang’s voice was not loud, and was even somewhat hoarse due to crying, but Zhou Rong felt as if he had been pierced by something sharp, unable to speak for a moment.
Guo Weixiang said with a cigarette, pressing his palm against his flushed forehead. “If I had been there at the time, I would never have let an 80-year-old man close the gate, I would definitely…”
Zhou Rong patted Guo Weixiang’s arm, as if transmitting some kind of strength, and pressed heavily: “Don’t think like that. If you had lived so long without any achievements, how could Deputy Director Guo rest in peace?”
“When you shouted at him about pursuing your own dream, your grandfather was actually happy,” Zhou Rong continued. “The old man must have been at peace when he left, knowing you were capable and didn’t need to rely on anyone.”
Xiangzi breathed rapidly, making a sharp nasal sound that eventually turned into uncontrollable sobbing.
Ding Shi carefully walked over, and Chun Cao followed lightly behind him. The four of them sat around the small dining table. Ding Shi patted Guo Weixiang’s back, offering soft comfort, and Guo Weixiang’s wailing gradually turned into a hoarse, low sob.
“Rong ge,” Chun Cao asked softly, “Is the disbandment confirmed?”
Zhou Rong exhaled a white mist, seemingly with a bitter smile, though it was hard to see clearly.
Chun Cao and Ding Shi exchanged a glance, seemingly unwilling to believe it. “But… our sixth squadron is still here.”
Wasn’t it said that as long as there’s a squadron leader, there’s an establishment? How can it be disbanded just like that…”
Zhou Rong did not answer.
As Chun Cao was about to ask again, Ding Shi touched her hand and gestured with his eyes for her to look down.
Chun Cao’s heart skipped a beat, and she fell silent.
“What are your dreams?” Zhou Rong suddenly asked through the white smoke of cigarettes.
Chun Cao and Ding Shi looked at each other.
“My dream is to do something truly meaningful,” Zhou Rong seemed to be talking to himself. “Not constantly worrying about whether pants are straight, if collars are neat, how one looks in front of cameras, or whether subordinates might embarrass themselves in foreign media. Not always pondering the meaning behind a glance, the hidden layers in a sentence, or the intricate interest relationships between people and factions… I just want to do something real, even if it’s like that Liberation Army unit back then, helping an orphanage shovel some snow in the morning.”
He wiped his face, extinguished the cigarette, and smiled sadly.
Guo Weixiang unknowingly stopped crying and whispered, “Rong ge…?”
Zhou Rong responded, but his answer seemed unrelated: “Just like this, it’s good. Everyone is walking on the path to realizing their dreams.”
He stood up under everyone’s puzzled gaze, exhaling with his entire body’s strength, as if he had just finished a difficult battle. In the pause between artillery fire, he patted the shoulders of his three comrades one by one: “I’m proud of you.” He flashed a brief smile and turned to walk out of the small canteen.
Si Nan was indeed not cooperating, just leaning and resting by the bed in the intensive care unit. Only when he heard Zhou Rong’s footsteps did he sit up straight, and in an almost imperceptible subtle way, his state seemed to relax slightly.
The aircraft carrier’s supplies were quite good. Zhou Rong brought back meals and sweet soup. As the sea quickly darkened and night fell, they sat head-to-head at a small table in the hospital room, eating, with the hot steam from the tangyuan and pineapple sweet soup spreading under the light.
“Is the rooster okay?” Si Nan asked without looking up.
“He’s fine,” Zhou Rong said. “Don’t go find him. Give him some time alone.”
Si Nan nodded thoughtfully.
After a while, Zhou Rong saw him open a lunchbox he had just sealed, and start eating two braised chicken legs and half a bowl of sweet soup. He suddenly understood why Si Nan had separately kept this lunchbox before eating—it wasn’t to save for breakfast tomorrow.
He wanted to take it as a gift to see Guo Weixiang.
Zhou Rong suddenly burst out laughing. Si Nan, expressionless, spat out a chicken bone: “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing, nothing,” Zhou Rong waved his hand, and the dark clouds hanging over his heart suddenly dispersed.
After the meal, the nurse finally dared to draw blood. Zhou Rong watched closely. Surprisingly, they only drew 100CC and stopped. When he asked why, the nurse was very polite: “Director Ning from the Strategic Research Institute said that 800CC was drawn a few days ago, and they’re afraid drawing too much might affect the body, and want to ensure long-term sustainability…”
The nurse accidentally let slip and immediately blushed bright red.
Si Nan, unfamiliar with basic national policies, rarely took the initiative to ask: “Sustainable what?”
The nurse fled in a panic.
The door closed with a click, and the hospital room filled with orange-yellow light became a small bedroom. Zhou Rong took a hot shower. He leaned forward, supporting himself with his hands beside the pillow, gazing at Si Nan lying on the bed.
Si Nan had a very satisfying dinner – though it was just a few chicken legs and sweet soup, he clearly enjoyed it immensely.
This was the best meal he had encountered since meeting Zhou Rong, he thought.
No need to gnaw on compressed biscuits, no need to drink cold water in the middle of winter, no need to worry about wolfing down food when extremely hungry and suddenly having to pick up a weapon to fight zombies. But none of this was something I could give him. I have nothing.
Zhou Rong swallowed, a bitter and indescribable sourness spreading from the base of his tongue. Si Nan moved slightly: “What’s wrong?”
“…Nothing,” Zhou Rong said softly, kissing the snow-white, soft gauze before his eyes.
