Chapter 11: The Breaking Point
Wi lay with his eyes open, staring at the ceiling. The wooden beams were the same ones he had stared at as a child, counting the knots when he couldn't sleep. Back then, his worries had been small—a test he hadn't studied for, a boy who had been mean to Li, a dog that had wandered too far from the farm.
Now the barn was full of neighbors who hated him, and somewhere in the hills, goblins had been spotted. Not close. Not yet. But the patrols had seen them.
He turned his head toward the window. The sky was still black. The moon was a thin crescent, barely casting any light.
His mother's breathing from the next room was slow and deep. His father's snoring had stopped. He was awake too, probably sitting in the dark, thinking the same thoughts.
Wei sat up. The kang was still warm beneath him. He swung his legs over the edge and sat there for a moment, letting the cold air wake him.
Then he reached into his inventory and pulled out the Heartstone Apple.
The fruit glowed in the darkness of the room, its deep crimson skin shot through with veins of gold. It pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat. He turned it over in his hands, feeling the warmth spread through his palms.
Permanent, the panel had said. Strength +0.1.
He had never seen anything like it. The other fruits gave temporary boosts—an hour, two hours, maybe three. But this one would change him forever.
He brought it to his mouth and bit down.
The flesh was firm and sweet, unlike any apple he had ever tasted. Juice ran down his chin, warm and sticky. The warmth that had been in his palms flooded through his entire body—his arms, his chest, his legs, his head.
It was not painful, but it was intense. His muscles tightened. His bones creaked. His heart pounded so hard he could hear it in his ears.
He finished the apple and sat still for a moment, breathing. His hands were trembling slightly. He wasn't sure if it was from the fruit or from everything else.
He checked his status.
```
Strength: 7.6
Agility: 7.3
Physical Resilience: 7.4
Intelligence: 7.3
Stamina: 7.4
Mana: 468
Credits: 287
Experience: 249/2000 toward Tier 3
```
Strength had increased by one tenth. Not a lot. But it was permanent. It was his now.
He flexed his arm. It felt the same. But he knew the change was there, buried in his muscles, waiting.
He stood up and dressed in the dark—dark pants, a dark shirt, shoes that tied tight. He strapped the scythe across his back, the blade wrapped in cloth to keep it from catching the light.
Then he went outside.
***
The sky was grey, the sun not yet up. The air was cold and damp, and his breath fogged in front of his face.
He walked to the barn.
The door was closed. He could hear movement inside—low voices, the shuffle of feet, a child coughing. The sick boy. The fever hadn't broken.
The barn smelled of sweat, sickness, and desperation. Wei had grown used to the smell of animals, of hay and manure. This was different. This was human fear, and it clung to the wooden walls like smoke.
He pushed the door open.
The survivors were awake. Old Lin sat on a crate near the door, his hands on his knees, his head bowed. His son, Lin Tao, stood by the window with his arms crossed, his jaw tight. Wang Feng, a broad-shouldered man with a thick neck and calloused hands, sat in the corner, sharpening a knife. The sound of the stone against the blade was steady, rhythmic, unnerving.
Liu Wei, thin and hollow-cheeked, held his sick son in his arms, rocking back and forth in the corner. The women were packing the few blankets they had, their movements slow and heavy. The children were huddled together near the back wall, their eyes wide and dark.
"You're supposed to leave at dawn," Wei said.
Old Lin looked up. His face was grey, his eyes sunken. He looked like he hadn't slept in a week.
"We need more time," he said. His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper.
"You've had all night."
"One more day. That's all we ask."
Wei shook his head. "The agreement was one night. Dawn. You leave."
Lin Tao stepped forward, his boots heavy on the dirt floor. "You really want to throw us out? With children? With a sick boy?" He gestured toward Liu Wei's son, his arm sweeping wide. "Look at him. He can barely breathe."
"I want you to honor the agreement."
"The agreement was made when we were starving." Lin Tao's voice rose. "We weren't thinking clearly. You can't hold us to that."
Wei stared at him. "That's convenient."
Wang Feng stood up, the knife still in his hand. He was a large man, and when he stood, he seemed to fill the corner. "You think you can talk to us like that, boy? We're your elders. We've been farming this land since before you were born."
"And we've been cleaning up your messes since before I could walk," Wei said. "The stolen chickens. The broken fence. The fire."
Wang Feng's face darkened. "You little shit. You don't know what you're talking about."
"I know you stole from us. I know you burned our field. I know you broke my dog's leg."
"You have no proof." Wang Feng took a step forward, the knife catching the light from the window.
"I don't need proof." Wei didn't back down. "I have my eyes."
Liu Wei spoke for the first time. His voice was quiet, almost a whisper, but it cut through the tension like a blade. "Please. My son is sick. He needs rest. He needs food. Just a little more time."
Wei looked at the boy. His face was pale, his lips cracked. His eyes were half-closed, and his small chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths. The fever was burning through him, and there was nothing any of them could do about it except wait.
"We gave you food," Wei said. "We gave you shelter. Now you leave."
"We'll die out there," Liu Wei said. Tears welled in his eyes. "You know we will."
"That's not our problem."
Lin Tao's face twisted. "You've always looked down on us. You and your father. With your wall and your—"
"We have a wall because we worked for it." Wei's voice was cold. "That's all."
"Worked for it?" Wang Feng laughed—a harsh, ugly sound. "You think we didn't work? You think we sat around doing nothing while you built your wall and filled your barns?"
"I think you're thieves. I think you're liars. I think you'd rather take than earn."
Wang Feng's face went red. "You son of a bitch." He took a step forward, the knife raised.
Lin Tao grabbed his arm. "Not yet."
Wang Feng shook him off but didn't move closer. His knuckles were white around the knife handle, and his breathing was heavy.
Old Lin stood up. His legs were weak, and he swayed for a moment before steadying himself. "We're not leaving. We have nowhere to go. Our children will die out there."
"That's not our problem."
"It is now." Old Lin's eyes were hard. "You let us in. You fed us. You can't just send us back out to die. Not if you want to live with yourselves."
Liu Wei held his son tighter. "Have you no mercy? Look at him. He's just a child. He hasn't done anything to you."
Wei's father appeared in the doorway behind him. He had come without a sound, and now he stood there, his arms crossed, his face unreadable.
"You have one hour," he said. "Then the gate closes."
Lin Tao spun around. "You can't do this."
"I can." Wei's father didn't raise his voice. "I am."
Wang Feng took a step forward. "We're not going anywhere, you hear me? We'll die right here before we leave."
"Then you'll die." Wei's father's voice was quiet, almost gentle. "But not on my land."
He turned and walked away. Wei followed.
Behind them, Lin Tao shouted: "This isn't over, you bastards! You'll regret this!"
Wang Feng's voice echoed after them: "Fucking cowards! Hiding behind your wall!"
***
The hour passed slowly.
Wei stood on the wall, watching the barn. The survivors did not pack. The women sat in the doorway, staring at the ground, their faces blank. The children played in the dirt, too young to understand what was happening.
Lin Tao paced back and forth, his hands clenched into fists. Wang Feng stood by the barn door, arms crossed, glaring at the house. Liu Wei sat with his sick son, rocking, rocking, rocking.
Wei's father stood beside him, silent.
"What are they waiting for?" Wei asked.
"Something." His father's voice was low. "I don't know what. But something."
Hao climbed up the wall, wincing as his ribs twinged. He moved carefully, one hand on the stone, the other holding his side. "They're not leaving, are they?"
"No."
"Fucking bastards." Hao spat over the edge. "We should have never let them in."
"We couldn't let them die," Wei's mother said from below. She had come out of the house and was standing in the courtyard, her arms crossed, her face tight.
"The hell we couldn't." Hao's voice was bitter. "They would have let us die. They tried to."
Li climbed up beside him. Her face was pale, but her eyes were hard. "What are we going to do?"
"We will wait." Wei's father didn't look at her. "We give them the hour. Then we remind them by our methods."
"Remind them how?" Hao asked.
Wei's father didn't answer.
At the end of the hour, Wei's father climbed down from the wall. His boots hit the packed earth with a heavy thud. He didn't look back at the barn. He just walked toward the house, his shoulders set, his pace steady.
Wei followed. Hao fell into step beside him, still wincing with each movement that tugged at his ribs. Li started to follow too, but Wei's father stopped and turned.
"Not you," he said.
Li's face tightened. "Why not?"
"Because I said so."
"That's not a reason."
Wei's father studied her for a moment. She was seventeen, small-boned and sharp-eyed, and she had her mother's stubbornness. The kitchen knife was still tucked into her belt. She'd been carrying it everywhere since the goblin attack.
"Your mother needs someone in the house," he said. "Grandmother too. If something goes wrong—"
"Then I should be there," Li said. "I can fight."
"I know you can. But right now, the house needs guarding more than the barn needs another blade." He put his hand on her shoulder. "Stay. Watch the windows. If you hear shouting, bar the door and don't open it for anyone but us."
Li's jaw worked. She looked at Wei, then at Hao, then back at their father. "Fine. But if you're not back in twenty minutes, I'm coming anyway."
"Fair enough."
She turned and walked back toward the house, her back straight, her hand still resting on the knife handle. She didn't look back.
"Stubborn," Hao muttered.
"She gets it from Mother," Wei said.
"We all get it from Mother. It's a plague."
They walked into the kitchen. Uncle Jianguo was sitting at the table, a whetstone in one hand and a knife in the other. The blade was already sharp enough to shave with—Wei could see the edge glinting in the grey light from the window—but his uncle kept working it with slow, steady strokes. Shhk. Shhk. Shhk. The sound was rhythmic, almost hypnotic. He looked up when they entered, his eyes moving from face to face.
"Time?" he asked.
"Time," Wei's father said.
Jianguo set the knife down on the table and stood. He was a head taller than anyone else in the room, his shoulders broad and his arms thick with muscle from decades of hard labor and harder training. Even in his forties, he carried himself like a soldier—back straight, eyes sharp, every movement deliberate and economical. He walked to the corner of the kitchen and picked up the scythe. It was Wei's spare, the one he had used before the Tree of Life blessed his main weapon. The curved blade caught the light from the window and flashed, a cold silver arc.
Hao picked up his bow from where it leaned against the wall. He pulled an arrow from the quiver and nocked it in one smooth motion.
"Li wanted to come," Wei said.
"She's got fire," Jianguo said. "Good. But three is enough. Four would look like we're trying too hard."
"Three?" Hao looked around. "There's four of us right now."
"Four, then. Don't correct your elders."
"You're not that much older than me."
"I'm old enough to still throw you over the wall. Want to test it?"
Hao shut his mouth.
"Come," Wei's father said.
They walked to the barn. The morning light was grey and thin, the sun still hidden behind the eastern mountains. Their boots were heavy on the packed earth of the courtyard. The air was cold and damp, and their breath fogged in front of their faces. Wei's father walked at the front, his pace steady and unhurried. Jianguo walked beside him, the scythe resting across his shoulder like it weighed nothing. Wei and Hao followed a step behind.
"You ready for this?" Wei asked his brother quietly.
Hao's hands were steady on the bow. "I've been ready since they broke Hei's leg."
"That was years ago."
"And I've been angry for years. It keeps."
Wei's father pushed the barn door open without breaking stride. Jianguo stepped through first, and his size alone changed the room. He didn't raise the scythe. He didn't speak. He just stood there, filling the doorframe, his shadow falling across the packed dirt floor. The survivors went silent. Even the children, huddled near the back wall, stopped their whimpering.
Lin Tao stepped forward, his boots scuffing through the straw. He was trying to look unafraid, but his eyes kept flicking to Jianguo, to the scythe, to the cold empty expression on the big man's face. "What's this? You're going to kill us? In front of the children?"
Jianguo didn't answer. Didn't move. Just stared. The silence stretched until it became uncomfortable, and then it stretched further.
Wang Feng stood up from his corner, his knife still in his hand. The blade was sharp—he'd been working on it all night, and the edge caught the grey light like a sliver of ice. "You think that scares us?"
"It should," Jianguo said. His voice was quiet, almost conversational. That made it worse.
Wang Feng took a step forward, raising the knife. Lin Tao grabbed his arm.
"Wait," Lin Tao said. He was looking at Jianguo now, really looking. The height. The breadth of the shoulders. The way the big man's eyes held neither anger nor fear—just a cold, patient assessment, like a butcher examining a carcass. "Wait."
Wang Feng shook him off but didn't step closer. "What?"
"That's not a farmer." Lin Tao's voice was low, meant only for Wang Feng, but the barn was so quiet that everyone heard. "Look at him. Look at his eyes. He's killed people before."
"Don't care," Wang Feng muttered, but his knife hand wavered.
"We're not killers," Wei's father said. His voice was calm, carrying through the barn like a bell. "But we're not fools either. You had your hour. Now you leave."
Lin Tao's face twisted. He turned away from Jianguo—relief flickering across his features for just a moment—and faced Wei's father. "You think a man with a scythe scares me? I've seen worse. I've done worse."
"You've done worse to us," Wei said. The words came out cold. He didn't try to soften them.
"That was different."
"Different how?"
Lin Tao opened his mouth. Closed it. The silence was answer enough.
"Different because you thought you'd get away with it," Hao said from behind Wei. His bow was still raised, the arrow pointed at the ground. "Different because you thought we wouldn't fight back. That's the only difference."
"I wasn't talking to you, boy."
"I'm not a boy. I'm the one with the bow."
Liu Wei stood up from the corner, his sick son cradled in his arms. The boy was pale, his lips cracked, his breath coming in shallow little gasps. Liu Wei's face was hollow with exhaustion, his eyes red from sleeplessness. "Please." His voice was barely above a whisper, but it cut through the tension like a knife. "Just let us stay until my son's fever breaks. Then we'll go. I promise on my life."
Wei's father looked at the boy. The small chest rising and falling. The pale cheeks. The way Liu Wei's hands trembled as he held him.
"Wei," his father said quietly. "What do you think?"
Wei looked at the boy. At Liu Wei. At the desperate, hollow hope in the man's eyes. "He's not like the others," he said. "He never was. He just wants his son to live."
His father nodded slowly. "One more day," he said.
"What?" Lin Tao spun around, his face flushing red. "You're giving them another day? You can't just—"
"I'm giving the boy another day." Wei's father's voice was firm, leaving no room for argument. "When his fever breaks, they all leave. That's final."
"That's not fair!" Wang Feng stepped forward, his voice rising to a shout. "Why should they get special treatment? Because he begged prettier than the rest of us?"
"Because their son is dying," Wei's mother said from the doorway.
She stood there with her arms crossed, her face as hard as the stone of the wall. She had followed them without anyone noticing—Wei didn't know how long she'd been standing there, but from the look on her face, it had been long enough.
"And because I won't have that on my conscience," she continued. "Whatever else you've done—whatever you've taken from us—that boy hasn't done anything. He deserves a chance to live."
Lin Tao laughed. It was an ugly sound, sharp and bitter. "Conscience. You have a conscience now? Where was your conscience when we were starving out there? When your wall went up and our fields went dry?"
"We gave you food," Wei's mother said. Her voice was cold. "We gave you shelter. We didn't have to do either."
"No, you didn't have to. But you did. And now you're throwing us out like garbage."
"You're throwing yourselves out," she said, "by refusing to leave when you agreed to leave. By demanding more than we can give. By threatening my son in my own home."
Wang Feng spat on the ground. The spittle landed near Wei's feet, a dark wet spot on the packed earth. "This is pointless. They're not going to help us. They never were. They've always looked down on us—"
"Enough." Old Lin's voice cut through the noise like a blade. He grabbed his son's arm and pulled him back. "We'll go. We'll go now."
"Father—"
"I said enough." Old Lin's voice cracked—not with weakness, but with finality. "We'll go."
Liu Wei looked up at Wei's father, his eyes wet and desperate. "One more day? You promised."
"One more day," Wei's father said. "But only for the boy. The rest of you leave now."
Lin Tao's face was red with fury. "You're splitting us up? After everything? We came here together—"
"You came here together," Wei said, "but you're not leaving together. That's your problem. Not ours."
Lin Tao turned to Liu Wei. His voice was low and dangerous. "You'd leave us? After everything we did for you? After we took you in when your wife died? After we shared our food?"
Liu Wei's eyes were wet, but his voice didn't waver. "My son is dying. I'm sorry. I'm sorry for everything. But my son is dying, and I have to choose him."
"So are we! All of us! You think your kid is special?"
"No," Liu Wei said quietly. "I think he's mine."
Lin Tao stared at him. The anger in his face warred with something else—something that might have been hurt, or might have been the realization that he was losing control. Finally, he turned away.
"Fine," he spat. "Stay. See if I care."
***
The survivors left at sunrise.
Liu Wei stayed behind, huddled in the corner of the barn with his son pressed against his chest. He was rocking slowly, whispering something too soft to hear. A lullaby, maybe. Or a prayer. The boy's breathing was still shallow, but his face was less pale than it had been an hour ago.
The others filed out. Old Lin led the way, his back bent, his steps slow and heavy. Lin Tao walked beside him, his jaw tight, his fists clenched. Wang Feng followed, still gripping his knife. The women came next, clutching their children and their blankets. The young men brought up the rear, their eyes sweeping the courtyard as they walked, memorizing the layout.
Wei watched them from the gate. Hao stood beside him, his bow still in his hand, the arrow still nocked.
"They're casing the place," Hao muttered. "Looking for weaknesses."
"I know."
"Should we stop them?"
"We can't stop them from looking. We can only make sure they don't find any."
The procession was halfway to the gate when Lin Tao stopped. He turned around, planting his boots wide, and raised his voice so everyone in the courtyard could hear.
"You know what? We're not leaving. Not without food. Not without supplies."
Wang Feng stepped up beside him. "He's right. You have plenty. More than you need."
Wei's father crossed his arms. "We gave you food."
"Bread and congee." Lin Tao spat the words like they tasted of rot. "Barely enough to keep a child alive. We know you have more. We're not stupid."
"We have enough for ourselves," Wei's father said. "That's all you need to know."
Wang Feng stepped forward. "Half. We want half of everything. That's the deal."
"That's not a deal. That's a demand."
"Call it whatever you want. Fair is fair."
Wei's father didn't move. "You want half of everything we have, and you think that's fair?"
"You have a wall. You have land. You have food." Wang Feng's voice was hard, but there was a tremor in it now. "We have nothing. You owe us for that."
"We owe you nothing."
Old Lin stepped between them, his hands raised in a gesture of peace that didn't reach his eyes. "We're not asking for charity. We're asking for what's right. You have more than you need. We have nothing. Share with us, and we'll leave peacefully. That's all. A fair share, and we walk away."
"And if we don't?" Wei asked.
Lin Tao smiled. It was not a kind smile. "Then we don't leave."
Jianguo stepped forward. He didn't raise the scythe. He didn't speak. He just moved—one step, then another—and the space between him and Wang Feng disappeared. Up close, the size difference was almost comical. Jianguo was a head taller and twice as wide. Wang Feng took a step back before he could stop himself.
"You'll leave," Jianguo said quietly. "One way or another."
Wang Feng raised his knife, but his hand was shaking. The blade trembled in the grey morning light. "Try it, old man. I've killed bigger than you."
"You've killed nothing," Jianguo said. "I can tell. You hold that knife like it's a tool. Not a weapon. You've never looked a man in the eyes while he died. I have."
The silence that followed was absolute. Wang Feng's face went pale. His knife hand dropped an inch.
Then Hao raised his bow.
The motion was smooth, practiced—hours of training in the yard, his ribs still aching, his fingers still raw. He drew the string back to his ear in one fluid pull and aimed at the dirt in front of Lin Tao's feet.
He released.
The arrow thudded into the ground, inches from Lin Tao's boots. Dust puffed up in a small cloud. The shaft quivered.
Everyone froze.
Lin Tao looked down. His face, which had been flushed with anger moments before, went pale as milk. He took a step back without meaning to.
"The next one won't miss," Hao said. His voice was steady, but Wei could see his hands trembling on the bow.
"You little bastard," Wang Feng snarled. "You think you can—"
"The next one," Hao said, louder this time, "won't miss."
Lin Tao looked at his father. Old Lin's face was unreadable—weathered stone revealing nothing.
"We'll take what they gave us," Old Lin said quietly. "For now."
Lin Tao stared at him. "You're just going to let them—"
"We're taking what we can. For now." Old Lin's voice didn't rise, but something in it made Lin Tao close his mouth. The old man looked at Wei's father. "We'll be back."
"I know," Wei's father said.
Lin Tao's eyes flickered from the arrow to Hao to Wei. His jaw tightened until the muscles bulged. Then he nodded once—a short, sharp motion. "Fine."
Wei's mother brought out a bag of rice and a basket of vegetables. Plain rice. Plain vegetables. Nothing that would hint at the stores in the warehouse or the thriving garden on the other side of the property. She handed them to Lin Tao without a word. Her face was stone, but Wei saw the way her fingers tightened on the basket before she let go.
Lin Tao took them. He looked at Wei, and his eyes were flat and cold.
"This isn't over," he said.
"I know."
"You'll regret this. All of you."
"Maybe," Wei said. "But not today."
Lin Tao turned and walked through the gate. Wang Feng followed, his knife still in his hand. Old Lin was the last. He paused at the threshold and looked back at the house—at the wall, at the vines, at the golden glow of the Tree of Life in the distance. His lips curved into a small smirk. Just for a moment. Then it was gone.
He walked through the gate and didn't look back again.
***
The gate closed. The bar fell into place with a heavy thud.
Wei stood with his hands against the wood, feeling the grain rough under his palms. The courtyard was silent except for the sound of Hao's breathing, still fast and shallow.
Hao lowered the bow. His hands were shaking badly now that the tension had broken.
"Well," he said, his voice thin. "I scared them away."
"You're shaking," Wei said.
"I'm vibrating with adrenaline. It's different."
"It looks the same."
"Everyone's a critic." Hao tried to laugh, but it came out shaky. "Did you see Lin Tao's face? I thought he was going to piss himself."
"You aimed at his feet."
"I aimed at his pride. That's a smaller target."
Jianguo put his hand on Hao's shoulder. "Good shot. You kept your nerve."
Hao's grin flickered, uncertain. "Told you I was good."
"You got lucky," Wei's mother said, but her voice was softer now, the stone cracking just a little.
"Luck is a skill," Hao said. "I've been practicing."
She shook her head and pulled him into a hug—quick and fierce, the kind she gave when she'd been scared and didn't want to admit it. Hao stiffened, then relaxed.
"Don't do that again," she said into his shoulder.
"I won't. Probably."
Jianguo looked at the closed gate. "That smirk," he said. "Old Lin. He's planning something."
"We knew he would be," Wei's father said. "A man like that doesn't stop. He just waits."
"Then we wait too," Wei said. "And we're better at it."
His father almost smiled. "We've had more practice."
***
The morning passed slowly, the sun climbing higher into a sky still streaked with smoke from the distant town. Wei stood in the courtyard, watching his mother hang laundry on the line. The sheets were white and clean, snapping in the breeze like sails, and the smell of damp cotton mixed with woodsmoke from the kitchen chimney.
His mother pinned a sheet with a sharp, practiced motion. "If you're going to stand there, you might as well make yourself useful. Hand me the small pins."
Wei passed her the tin of clothespins. "Hao used to help you with this."
"Hao used to eat the starch." She took a pin and clamped it over a pillowcase. "I'd turn my back and he'd have his whole face in the bowl. Your father said it was a phase. The phase lasted three years."
"I remember. He used to smell like laundry."
"He still does, if he stands close enough to the line." She shook out a sheet and held it up. "Take that end. You're tall enough now."
Wei took the damp corner and stretched the sheet flat. They worked in silence for a moment, the fabric billowing between them like a ghost.
"What's bothering you?" his mother asked without looking at him.
"Nothing."
"Wei. I've been your mother for twenty-three years. You've had that crease between your eyebrows since you were six years old and the neighbor's cat ate your pet cricket. Out with it."
"It's the rice fields," he said. "Father's been checking them every morning, and every morning they're still dead. We have three months of rice in the warehouse, and after that—"
"After that, we eat potatoes and your father complains for the rest of his life." She pinned her corner. "Your father has been complaining about something since the day I met him. First it was the soil, then the weather, then the neighbors. Now it's the end of the world. He's consistent, I'll give him that."
"This is different."
"It's always different. That's what he says every time." She reached across and took the corner from him, pinning it neatly. "The rice fields will get fixed. You'll fix them, or Jianguo will, or your father will figure something out. He once repaired an irrigation pump with a piece of string and a bent nail. I don't know how he did it, but the pump worked for another five years."
"That's not—"
"Wei." She turned and put her hands on her shoulders. "Your father has been farming this land since before you were born. He's seen floods, droughts, blights, and the time Hao tried to help by watering the wheat with fish sauce. He'll figure out the rice. What's really bothering you?"
He looked at her tired eyes, the grey in her hair, the flour dust still on her apron. "Lin Tao said he'd be back. Old Lin smirked like he knew something. And the goblins—"
"The goblins are still in the hills. I know." She squeezed his shoulders. "Your grandmother once told me that worry is like a rocking chair. It gives you something to do, but it doesn't get you anywhere."
"Grandmother says a lot of things."
"She's had eighty-four years to practice." She dropped her hands and picked up the empty laundry basket. "Now go do something useful. The orchard won't harvest itself, and if you stand here brooding any longer I'll put you to work scrubbing the wok."
"I was helping."
"You were holding a sheet and staring at the sky. That's not helping, that's daydreaming." She headed toward the house, then called over her shoulder, "And eat lunch before you pass out! You're starting to look like a ghost. A tall ghost with a crease between his eyebrows."
End Of Chapter 11