Meanwhile, back in the village, a meeting was underway in the commune office.
The room, though modest in size, felt stifling as the Commune secretary, brigade leader, team heads, the storekeeper, the accountant, all gathered beneath a fading portrait of president Mao on the wall. The air was thick with tension.
At the head of the table sat Commune Director Chen Deshun.
His expression was stern, his fingers lightly tapping against the wooden surface as he spoke in a measured yet heavy tone.
"This time, the county has issued a strict quota," he said slowly. "We must deliver the assigned amount of grain—no less."
He paused, letting his words settle before continuing.
"The severe drought has affected several regions across the country. The summer harvest has fallen short, and because of this, strict measures have been implemented. Investigations were carried out—many commune leaders around Taonan County were found guilty of falsifying production records, inflating figures, and concealing grain."
A faint murmur rippled through the room, but quickly died down.
"Fortunately," Chen Deshun added, his gaze sweeping across the assembled cadres, "our commune was not involved."
There should have been relief.
There should have been pride.
Yet, the room remained silent.
"That's why," he continued, his voice carrying a hint of restrained ambition, "if we are able to meet this quota, there is a high possibility that our village will be awarded the title of Advanced Village."
Still—no response.
No one cheered.
No one even nodded.
Instead, uneasy glances were exchanged.
Shitou Brigade was the only brigade in the village, divided into two production teams. Brigade Leader Liu Zhenshen, along with the two team leaders, the storekeeper, and the accountant, looked at one another with unconcealed concern.
Because they all understood what this fixed quota truly meant.
In the past, grain submission was based on actual harvest. There had always been… room for adjustment. A small number altered here, a figure rounded there—enough to leave a little grain behind for the villagers' own survival.
But now—
The quota was fixed.
Rigid.
Unyielding.
Liu Zhenshen's brows knit together as he finally spoke, his tone cautious yet firm.
"Director Chen, the issue is not the quota itself," he said. "The issue… is the rain."
He drew in a slow breath before continuing.
"During the summer harvest, our brigade already faced difficulties. The rainfall was insufficient, and we had to draw water from the river to sustain the crops. But now…" His voice grew heavier. "There has been no rain for over three months. The riverbanks are drying up day by day. In our village alone, the river mouth has already gone dry."
A faint shift passed through the room.
"If we wish to fetch water now," he added, "we must travel several kilometers. If this continues… we may not even secure a proper harvest, let alone fulfill the grain quota."
The two team leaders nodded grimly in agreement.
Chen Deshun turned his gaze toward Liu Zhenshen.
"Why are you so certain there will be no rain?" he asked. "We can delay planting for another week. Perhaps it will rain."
Liu Zhenshen shook his head slowly.
"We have already delayed planting by a week," he replied. "We hoped for rain… but none came. Just two days ago, we consulted the village elders. Even they are uncertain."
At this, Chen Deshun fell into silence.
Initially, he had been filled with quiet satisfaction. Their commune had passed the investigation unscathed. He had even hoped to push for greater output this season—to exceed expectations, to earn recognition and get promoted.
But who could have foreseen this?
A strict quota… imposed in the midst of a natural calamity.
He exhaled slowly, his fingers tightening on the table.
"What is your estimate, then?" he asked at last. "How much can we harvest?"
Liu Zhenshen's answer was immediate—and grim.
"We cannot predict it."
He lowered his gaze slightly.
"With no rain, the seedlings may not even break through the soil before the first snow. And once the snow falls…" He paused. "The frost may destroy everything."
A heavy silence settled over the room.
Chen Deshun closed his eyes briefly, as if weighing the burden of his position.
"Our duty," he said at last, his tone resolute, "is to follow the state's directives. If a quota has been assigned, we must do everything within our power to meet it."
He straightened slightly.
"There is no rain, yes. Then we must rely on manpower. The villagers can fetch water from the river manually. It will be arduous—but without irrigation, there will be no harvest at all."
His words fell like stones into still water.
The reaction was immediate.
Liu Zhenshen and the two team leaders exchanged stunned looks, disbelief evident on their faces.
One of the team leaders could not hold back any longer.
"Director Chen," he said carefully, "the river is shared by Shitou Brigade and the two neighboring brigades. The riverbed has already dried up for over three kilometers. If we begin drawing water on such a scale…"
He hesitated, then finished bluntly:
"It may lead to conflict."
Liu Zhenshen nodded firmly.
"Especially with Laoya Brigade," he added. "We have had disputes with them for over a decade over mountain resources. If water becomes scarce… this conflict could escalate beyond control."
The second team leader leaned forward, his expression tense.
"And even if conflict is avoided," he said, "the amount of water required is immense. One mu of land needs at least half a gallon per irrigation, and wheat requires three rounds before the snowfall. Even if every villager labors day and night… it could take month."
The room fell silent once more.
The problems were many.
After a long back and forth and with no solution Chen Deshun finally spoke.
"I will personally speak with the commune secretaries of the neighboring brigades," he said. "We must come to an agreement regarding the use of river water."
There was no better option.
Only the lesser of hardships.
The meeting gradually dispersed.
Liu Zhenshen stepped out of the office last.
One of the team leaders could no longer restrain himself.
"Brigade Leader Liu," he said in a low but trembling voice, "does the state not understand our predicament? Can they not see that this natural disaster has spared no one? Must all the hardship fall upon us rural folk while the urban people enjoy the benefits?"
The words, once spoken, seemed to hang heavily in the air.
Liu Zhenshen's expression changed instantly. He glanced around in alarm, his voice dropping to a sharp whisper.
"Team Leader Sun—watch your words!"
His tone carried both warning and urgency.
"In times like these, one must guard one's tongue as one guards one's rice jar," he added in a hushed voice, invoking an old saying. "Such thoughts… must not be spoken aloud."
He paused, then continued more steadily.
"The policies may seem harsh to us, yes. But are they not for the greater good of the country? Food is the foundation of the nation, the people regard food as fule. If the state is strict, it is because the situation is dire."
Team Leader Sun opened his mouth as if to argue further, but in the end, he swallowed his words. With a long sigh, he lowered his head, the lines on his face deepening.
Liu Zhenshen exhaled quietly, as though releasing the tension in his chest.
"Come," he said at last, his voice weary. "We must inform the villagers. They have the right to know what lies ahead."
Not long after the announcement an uprore irrupted in the production team fields.
"The state has set a fixed grain quota?"
"And we have to fetch water from the river ourselves?"
"In this drought? Are they asking us to fight against nature with bare hands?"
Voices rose one after another, the fields quickly filling with anxious villagers.
A middle-aged man slapped his thigh in frustration. "My family has over ten mu of land, but only two working hands! Even if we carry water day and night, how are we supposed to manage it all?"
An elderly woman leaned on her cane, her voice trembling. "These old bones of mine creak with every step… How can I walk miles to fetch water?"
Another man scoffed bitterly. "Those in the city sit and wait for their grain rations, while we break our backs in the fields. We toil like oxen, yet still go hungry—what kind of fairness is this?"
A young laborer wiped the sweat from his brow, shaking his head. "Three rounds of irrigation before the snow… Do they know what that means? Even if the whole village works together, we won't finish before winter!"
Someone else added anxiously, "And what about the river? It's shared with other brigades. If everyone starts taking water, won't there be fights?"
A woman holding a child tightened her grip and said in a worried tone, "Given this strict quotas, if the harvest fails… how will we survive later? The children—what will they eat?"
Another voice, low and heavy, murmured,
"In years like this, even wild greens are hard to find, how are we going to survive such intense labour and no food?"
The noise swelled, overlapping voices filled with fear, resentment, and helplessness.
Standing at the front, Liu Zhenshen listened in silence.
Each word struck him like a hammer.
These were not complaints born of laziness...
They were the cries of people pushed to the edge.
For a fleeting moment, even his own resolve wavered.
He looked at the familiar faces before him—sunburnt, weary, lined with hardship—and felt a deep ache in his chest.
Taking a slow breath, he raised his hand.
"Enough."
His voice was not loud, but it carried.
Gradually, the crowd quieted.
Liu Zhenshen looked at them, his expression grave yet steady.
"The matter of the river water is still under discussion," he said. "The commune will negotiate with the neighboring brigades. Until then…"
He paused, then continued:
"There will be no labor. Everyone is to rest."
Under normal circumstances, such an announcement would have been met with cheers—laughter, even relief.
But today...
There was none.
No smiles.
No celebration.
The villagers stood there for a long time, discussing.
Because what lay ahead was a future filled with uncertainty.
And perhaps, hardship far greater than anything they had yet endured.
For Li Shuying, the day at school passed without any outward disturbance, yet her heart remained far from calm.
Classes continued as usual until the afternoon. Even Tang Yulan, for once, did not stir trouble for Tang Chunlan.
That, in itself, felt strange.
From time to time, Li Shuying could still feel Tang Yulan's sidelong glances—sharp, cold, and laced with unspoken hostility—but they never escalated into anything more.
More puzzling, however, was Zhao Hongmei.
During the break, Li Shuying noticed her speaking with Tang Chunlan, her expression unusually gentle, even ingratiating. It was a sight that did not sit right with her. She even felt time to time Zhao Hongmei looking at her and smirking, which unsettled Li Shuying.
Zhao Hongmei was not someone who acted without purpose. When the weasel pays a New Year's visit to the chicken, it is never with good intentions.
Still, Li Shuying did not interfere.
Her thoughts were too entangled elsewhere.
Again and again, her mind returned to the events of that morning.
Her second brother's silence weighed heavily upon her heart.
When he returned home this morning, Li Jianguo had not spoken a single word. Later, on the walk back to the county for school, he had not even spared her or Li Jianmin a glance.
That silence… was harder to bear than anger.
Li Shuying lowered her gaze, her fingers tightening unconsciously around her sleeve.
A trace of guilt flickered within her.
Yet beneath that guilt lay something firmer—unyielding.
She could not stop.
No matter what.
This path she had chosen was not for herself alone, but for the survival of her entire family. In times when even the heavens were mearciless, one could not afford the luxury of hesitation.
When the river runs dry, one must dig a well with bare hands.
By the time school ended in the afternoon, the sun had begun its slow descent.
When Li Shuying reached the county gate, she immediately spotted her brothers at their usual meeting place.
Li Jianmin stood nearby, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
A short distance away, Li Jianguo leaned against a tree, his figure still, his gaze distant—lost in thought.
Li Shuying hesitated for a moment before walking over.
Her eyes moved first to her second brother, then to Li Jianmin. Without speaking, she questioned him with a glance.
Li Jianmin shook his head slightly and murmured under his breath, "He's been like this the whole day… quiet, thinking about something."
Li Shuying's heart sank further.
"Did he say anything to you?" she asked softly.
Li Jianmin shook his head again.
"Not a word."
A faint sigh escaped her lips.
She then glanced around, suddenly realizing something was amiss.
"Where is elder brother?" she asked, frowning.
Li Jianmin hesitated before replying,
"He left again. Said he had something to take care of."
"What?" Li Shuying's brows knitted together in disbelief.
Yesterday, he had done the same—returning late, his back slightly hunched, his face pale with exhaustion.
And now, again?
A faint unease stirred within her.
She tried to recall—had anything like this happened in her previous life?
No.
Back then, her elder brother had already left school by this time and was searching for work in the county. This situation… was entirely unfamiliar.
A shadow of concern crossed her eyes.
Yet, for now, there was nothing she could do.
"I'll ask him tonight," she thought quietly, suppressing the unease.
With that, the three of them began their journey back to the village.
Throughout the walk, Li Jianguo remained several steps behind, walking alone, his figure silent and distant.
Ahead, Li Shuying and Li Jianmin walked side by side.
After a long silence, Li Jianmin let out a frustrated sigh.
"I really don't understand him," he muttered. "If he has something to say, why not just confront us directly? This silence… it's worse than a scolding."
Li Shuying nodded faintly.
She felt the same.
If her second brother had shouted at her, even struck her in anger, she could have endured it.
But this quiet… this restraint…
It gnawed at her heart.
By the time they reached the village, it was already late afternoon.
And that was when Li Shuying noticed something unusual.
Ordinarily, at this hour, the village roads would be empty—everyone still working in the fields.
But today...
The streets were not empty.
Clusters of elderly men stood together, speaking in low voices. Women gathered in courtyards, whispering among themselves. Children playing.
The village… was alive.
Yet it was not the liveliness of celebration.
As they walked further in, fragments of conversation drifted into Li Shuying's ears.
She could feel the heavy atmosphere, thick with anxiety, frustration, resentment.
Li Shuying slowed her steps slightly, her brows furrowing.
Though she could not piece together the full picture from these scattered words, one thing was certain—
Something had happened.
But what? She thought.
As soon as Li Shuying stepped into the courtyard, she slowed her pace.
Under the old poplar tree, her mother, Chen Meilan, was seated with Grand Aunt Li, Widow He, and Lu Lingmei. The four women sat on low stools engaged in quiet conversation.
It was an unusual sight.
In these days, it was rare to see her mother sitting at ease like this.
Li Shuying paused for a moment, then a gentle smile curved her lips as she walked forward.
"Grand Aunt Li, Aunt He, Aunt Lu… greetings."
Grand Aunt Li turned her head slowly, her aged eyes softening as she recognized her.
"Oh, it's little Shuying," she said with a faint smile. "You're back."
Li Shuying nodded obediently.
Widow He looked her up and down, a hint of warmth in her tired expression, "You look rather cheerful today, child. Did something good happen?"
Li Shuying shook her head lightly.
"Nothing in particular," she replied. "I'm just… happy to see you all resting instead of toiling in the fields. It reminds me of the old days."
Her words fell gently...
Yet the moment they landed, the air turned still.
For a brief moment, no one spoke.
Yes… the old days.
Just two years ago, before the communes, before work points and collective labor swallowed every waking hour, life had been slower… steadier. People worked their own plots, traded freely, and though they were not wealthy, they had a measure of peace.
Now...
Even sitting together like this had become a rare luxury.
A bitter smile tugged at Lu Lingmei's lips as she let out a long sigh.
"If only today were like those days," she said, her voice heavy. "But for me… today feels like the worst of all. Sometimes I feel like abandoning everything—taking my children and going far into the southwestern mountains. At least there, I could survive on wild produce. Better that than laboring endlessly for others, only to go hungry in the end."
Widow He nodded, her eyes reddening as if old wounds had been torn open.
"Old He was the fortunate one," she said hoarsely. "He left early… spared himself all this suffering. But what of me? He left all the burdens behind."
Her voice trembled.
"Some days, I wonder… if only I could follow him, leave all this hardship behind…"
"Enough!"
Chen Meilan's voice cut in sharply, her brows knitting together.
"How can you speak such inauspicious words so lightly?" she reprimanded. "You still have children to raise. Do you want them to grow up like weeds, without a mother's care?"
Grand Aunt Li also nodded, her voice firm despite her age.
"Exactly. Who in this world does not suffer? If everyone thought only of escape, who would remain to endure? Who would strive to change their fate?"
Lu Lingmei gave a hollow laugh.
"Change our fate?" she repeated bitterly. "Tell me, how are we to change anything?"
Her voice grew heavier with each word.
"There has been no rain for three months. The harvest is uncertain. That alone was enough to trouble the heart. But now—"
She paused, her eyes dim.
"Now the state has set a strict grain quota. And as if that were not enough, the commune demands we carry water from the river ourselves to irrigate the fields."
She let out a shaky breath.
"How are we supposed to survive this… ordeal?"
Silence followed.
A suffocating silence.
The expressions on everyone's faces darkened, weighed down by helplessness and dread.
But Li Shuying's heart skipped a beat.
Her brows furrowed slightly.
Strict grain quotas…?
Manual irrigation…?
Something was wrong.
This… was not how it was supposed to be.
This was only late 1958.
Such measures—such desperation—should not have come so early.
In her previous life, the policy of fixed grain quotas had indeed been enforced… but that was during the summer harvest of 1959, when the famine had already begun to take shape, when people slowly started to realize the severity of the crisis.
But now—
It had come a half a year ahead.
Why?
How?
A chill crept up her spine.
And then...
A dangerous thought surfaced in her mind.