Settling Up

Half past nine. Old Zhou scraped the last plate of egg fried rice out of the wok, knocked the spatula twice against the rim to shake off the oil. His helper Xiao Liu was squatting by the door, smoking. A drizzle had settled over the urban village, filling the alley with wet grease fumes.

"Call it a night, boss?"

Zhou glanced at the wall clock. "You go ahead. I'll stay a while."

Xiao Liu crushed his cigarette, hung his apron on the back of a chair, and rode off on his electric scooter. Zhou pulled up a plastic stool, sat down, opened the ledger. Today's gross: twelve hundred. After ingredients, rent, and utilities: maybe three hundred seventy he could keep. Next month's shop rent was due — thirty thousand. His bank account had eighteen.

The door curtain lifted, bringing a gust of damp air.

"Still open?"

Zhou looked up. A man stood in the doorway, tall and lean, in a faded navy work jacket. His hair was ash-gray, his face lined like a cracked road. Zhou froze for two full seconds.

"Zhao Ming?"

"You still recognize me." Zhao Ming's lips stretched — not quite a smile.

Zhou got up, the stool scraping tile with a shriek. He walked over, stopped in front of Zhao Ming, unsure whether to shake hands or what. Twenty years. Their last meeting had been outside the courthouse — Zhao Ming in a detention center vest, being pushed into a police van. Zhou had stood across the street, holding a bag of tangerines. Zhao Ming had glanced back at him, said nothing.

"Sit. Sit down." Zhou pulled out a chair. "You eaten? Let me make you something."

"Whatever's easy."

Zhou went behind the counter, fired up the burner. Oil sizzled. He cracked two eggs into the wok. His hands were shaking. Twenty years. He'd gone from twenty-six to forty-six, opened this little stir-fry joint in the urban village, married a woman, divorced her, no kids. And Zhao Ming? He didn't want to think about it.

He came back out with a plate of pork and garlic shoots, grabbed two bottles of beer from the cooler.

"Drink."

Zhao Ming took the beer, popped the cap with his teeth, swallowed a long pull. He looked at the food, picked up his chopsticks, and ate slowly. Zhou sat across from him, watching. Zhao Ming's knuckles were thick and misshapen, black grime permanently lodged under his nails.

"When did you get out?" Zhou asked.

"Last month."

"Where were you—"

"Shaoguan."

Zhou nodded. He had no idea what kind of prison they had in Shaoguan. He didn't even know how many years Zhao Ming had been sentenced to. He'd made a point of not knowing, all these years. Whenever someone mentioned Zhao Ming's name, he'd change the subject. Eventually people stopped mentioning it. Everyone forgot.

Zhao Ming finished half the plate, put down the chopsticks, took another pull from the bottle.

"Old Zhou."

"Yeah."

"I need to borrow some money."

Zhou's hand curled into a fist under the table. He'd guessed as much. A man fresh out of prison, looking up the first person he could find — what else could it be for.

"How much?"

"Thirty thousand."

Zhou said nothing. The clock on the wall ticked, counting something.

"I saved up some labor pay on the inside," Zhao Ming said, his voice flat. "Found a job when I got out, construction site. But I need a deposit, and a place to rent, and some basics. I'm short thirty."

Zhou looked at his face. Twenty years in prison had carved away the face he remembered. But the eyes hadn't changed — still that steady, unblinking look.

"How soon?"

"Sooner the better."

"Alright." Zhou stood up, walked behind the register, crouched down. A metal locker, the lock nearly rusted through. He pulled open the door. Inside: today's cash takings, plus what he'd saved last month for the shop rent. He took it out, counted three stacks, walked back to the table, set them in front of Zhao Ming.

"Take it."

Zhao Ming looked at the money, then at him. He picked it up, folded it in half, slid it into the inside pocket of his jacket.

"I'll write you an IOU."

"Not necessary."

"I should." Zhao Ming tore a sheet from the order pad on the table, flipped it over, fished a ballpoint from his jacket pocket, and wrote a few lines. He tore the sheet off and pushed it across the table.

Zhou didn't look at it. He folded it and put it in his pants pocket.

Half a bottle of beer remained. Zhao Ming picked it up, held it at his lips for a beat.

"Old Zhou. About what happened back then—"

"Don't." Zhou cut him off. "That's all in the past."

Zhao Ming didn't say anything more. He finished the beer, stood up.

"I should go."

"Where?"

"Back to the site. Work starts early tomorrow."

Zhou walked him to the door. Zhao Ming pushed through the curtain. The rain had stopped. The alley was wet, the streetlights pooling on the ground like a film of oil. Zhao Ming walked to the end of the alley, turned right, and was gone.

Zhou stood at the door for a long time. The slip of paper in his pocket pressed against his thigh. He pulled it out, unfolded it.

It read:

I, Zhao Ming, hereby borrow thirty thousand yuan from Zhou Jianguo. July 14, 2026.

Yesterday's date. Zhou stared at it for a moment, then folded it back up, returned it to his pocket. His phone buzzed — a rent reminder from his landlord.

He turned off the lights, pulled down the shutter, locked it. Squatted by the door and smoked a cigarette. Then he pulled out his phone and typed a reply to his landlord:

Sir, could I have a few more days? I'll pay by the end of the month for sure.

He crushed the cigarette under his heel, got on his scooter, and headed toward his rented room. Passing the alley entrance, he glanced back over his shoulder. The alley was empty, just the streetlights burning. Same as yesterday. Same as the day before. Same as that day, twenty years ago.