Chapter 112

“This is Zhao Shunhai from Wanjiazhuang. Do you have any baby diapers left in stock?”

“All sold out?”

“Let me know as soon as you get a new shipment.”

…

On the morning of April 15th, Zhao Shunhai made the call, sounding utterly exhausted.

Zhao Shunhai was a villager from Wanjiazhuang in Shaan Province. His wife had been helping their son and daughter-in-law take care of their grandson in the city, while he stayed behind to tend the farm. But ever since the sandstorm disaster, cases of respiratory illness in the city had surged. For the sake of the child’s health, the daughter-in-law had brought the baby back to the countryside for the summer. Life was already tough enough, and to make things worse, the day before yesterday, they ran out of diapers.

Now the entire town was out of stock. Zhao Shunhai had spent two days running around, but couldn’t find a single pack.

It was now 9 a.m. After hanging up, Zhao Shunhai lit a cigarette in frustration. He had barely smoked half of it when Wu Xiuli walked in, frowning. “Wenwen and Lele can’t stand the smell of smoke. You’re still smoking?”

“I’m just smoking inside the house.”

“Even inside is no good.” Wu Xiuli snatched the cigarette from his hand and stubbed it out, then opened the window to air the room. Zhao Shunhai looked at the half-smoked cigarette with a pang of regret—tobacco prices had gone up, and that one stick had cost him 3.2 yuan.

After opening the window, Wu Xiuli sighed and asked, “Still no luck?”

Zhao Shunhai shook his head. “None.”

He’d just called every supermarket in the neighboring villages. Nothing online either. No one had any in stock.

“I’ll go look for some old clothes later, make some cloth diapers,” Wu Xiuli said with a sigh.

“Wenwen okay with that?”

“She doesn’t mind.”

Back in their day, they used to cut up coarse cloth into strips to make diapers. It saved money, sure, but they weren’t hygienic for repeated use, and they often gave babies rashes. Though their daughter-in-law had agreed to use cloth diapers, just the thought of it made her heart ache for her son.

After a few more words, the sound of their grandson crying came from next door.

“Go on,” Zhao Shunhai waved her off.

Wu Xiuli got up to soothe the baby.

Zhao Shunhai sat there in a daze for a while, then bent down to pick up the cigarette from the floor. He thought about taking a few more puffs, but in the end, tossed it outside.

The next morning, Zhao Shunhai filled his kettle with hot water and hitched up the donkey cart, heading to the cornfields. Last July, a portion of their corn had been ruined, but thanks to the biological locust compost they’d used, the soil was now more fertile than before. It was mid-April, time to sow the new crop.

“Uncle Zhao!”

“Shunhai, you’re out here too?”

…

On the way to the fields, several villagers greeted Zhao Shunhai.

“Yep, I’m here!” he replied with a cheerful wave.

By 2 p.m., Zhao Shunhai was deep into sowing, working fast to finish before dark. He kept going until 9 p.m. under the bright moonlight. The fields were now empty, not another soul in sight.

After a short rest, he turned the donkey cart toward home. But just a few steps in, he spotted a familiar figure in the neighboring field.

Zhao Shunhai squinted, then walked over. “Uncle Song?”

“Shunhai?” The man was Song Changjun, seventy-three years old. He had two sons. His younger son had died in a construction accident, and now he lived with his elder son.

“Want a ride home?” Zhao Shunhai pointed to his donkey cart. Song Changjun had a heart condition—last year, he’d been in the county hospital for three days. Seeing him alone in the cornfield this late worried Zhao Shunhai.

Song Changjun looked at the unfinished work and hesitated. “Sorry to trouble you.”

Three minutes later, the two of them were riding in the cart.

“Did Dachuan come back?” Zhao Shunhai asked casually as the cart rolled along. Song Changjun’s son, Song Dachuan, was thirty-eight and had been working in Shen City. Word was, he’d returned with his wife and child and was planning to contract a courier station in the village.

Song Changjun paused. “Yeah, he’s back.”

“You’re blessed now—filial son, grandson close by,” Zhao Shunhai said, offering the kind of words villagers liked to hear.

“He is quite filial,” Song Changjun replied with a faint smile.

“Grandpa!”

“Grandpa, Grandpa!”

…

At 7:30 p.m., the donkey cart pulled up to Song Changjun’s house. His two grandsons came running out like little gourd babies, shouting for their grandpa.

“I brought you something.” Song Changjun handed each child a grasshopper made of woven straw, then turned to Zhao Shunhai. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” Zhao Shunhai waved it off.

Three minutes later, he was on his way again. Song Changjun watched him go, then led the kids inside.

…

At 7:50 p.m., just as Zhao Shunhai got home, he received a call from the supermarket owner in the neighboring village. The reason? While cleaning out the warehouse, the owner had found two bags of nearly expired diapers.

“I can hold them for you. You want to come get them now, or…?” the owner asked.

“I’ll come now.” Zhao Shunhai didn’t even stop to rest. He hopped on his electric scooter and headed straight for the next village.

“These were stocked two years ago—still got two months before they expire.” At 9:30 p.m., in the dim light of the rural store, the owner pulled out two 60-count packs of diapers from a shelf. The packaging was intact, but covered in a thick layer of dust.

“No problem.” Zhao Shunhai wiped the dust off with his sleeve and pulled up his phone to pay. “How much?”

“One-fifty.”

“For one bag?”

“For both.”

“Are you sure?” Zhao Shunhai was stunned. These were a well-known brand—used to cost 65 to 80 yuan a pack. After the sandstorm, prices had shot up to 170.

The owner waved it off. “I got them cheap back then. No point jacking up the price when they’re about to expire.”

Diapers were in short supply now, but he wasn’t about to gouge people by doubling the price on nearly expired goods.

“Payment sent.” To show his gratitude, Zhao Shunhai also bought twenty jin of rice before heading home.

Beep beep!

Half an hour later, Zhao Shunhai had just stepped through the door when his chubby little grandson came toddling over.

“Here’s your little underpants,” Zhao Shunhai said, not caring whether the boy could understand or not, and promptly changed his diaper. The diaper had been on all day, and now the baby’s bottom was covered in red spots.

“It’s only April. What are we going to do when July comes…” Wu Xiuli sighed heavily.

She had spent the past couple of days researching disposable diapers. The main materials were bamboo pulp, cotton, and plant fibers. But with the Global Crisis, trees had become so corroded they could no longer grow. These days, both diapers and toilet paper were made from forage grass—grass that was also needed to feed livestock and fuel industrial production. It simply wasn’t enough.

“Sigh,” Zhao Shunhai looked at the diaper in his hand, just as troubled.

After some grumbling, the two decided to ration the diapers—make them last one day at a time.

Over the next two days, Zhao Shunhai finished planting all five mu of land around his home. During that time, Song Changjun was also out from dawn till dusk. But on the third afternoon, as Zhao Shunhai passed by the cornfield again, he noticed something strange: the hoes and mattocks were neatly arranged at the edge of the field, but there was no sign of Song Changjun.

“Have you seen Uncle Song?” Zhao Shunhai circled the area and asked a nearby villager.

“He was just here a moment ago.”

“Didn’t notice…”

…

The villagers looked around, puzzled.

Zhao Shunhai felt something was off. Without hesitation, he started searching up the mountain, and the other villagers joined in.

Half an hour later, they found Song Changjun in a clearing behind Wanjia Mountain. In the middle of the clearing stood a seven-meter-tall jujube tree. From one of its branches hung a hemp rope, swaying gently in the breeze, with a figure dangling from it.

“Uncle Song!” Zhao Shunhai’s legs nearly gave out.

Everyone rushed over to the base of the jujube tree.

Zhao Shunhai quickly cut Song Changjun down from the brittle branch. His face was pale and tinged with purple, and an empty pesticide bottle lay nearby.

“Call 120!”

“Carry him down to the clinic!”

“Old Zhang, get the tractor!”

…

The villagers were thrown into chaos. Zhao Shunhai began performing CPR with all his strength. Since the hanging had just occurred, Song Changjun’s body was still warm despite his ashen face.

Zhao Shunhai felt under his nose—there was still some warmth. Half an hour later, they carried Song Changjun down the mountain. By then, an ambulance from the local clinic had arrived. But the clinic’s medical capabilities were limited, so they transferred him directly to the county hospital.

By 3 p.m., news of Song Changjun’s suicide attempt had spread like wildfire through Wanjiazhuang.

…

“The patient was resuscitated in time, but we’re not sure how much pesticide he ingested. He’ll need gastric lavage and observation.”

At 10 p.m. that night, a middle-aged doctor emerged from the emergency room. He was 47 years old and explained that the pesticide Song Changjun had taken was a common one, which meant there was still hope for recovery.

“I shouldn’t have let him go out alone.”

“I knew something was off these past few days. I should’ve watched him more closely…”

…

As the doctor finished speaking, a tall young man slammed his fist against the wall. His name was Song Dachuan, and half his hair had already turned white. He was Song Changjun’s eldest son.

Zhao Shunhai saw the blood dripping from his knuckles and quickly tried to calm him. “Uncle Song must’ve just had a moment of weakness. Don’t blame yourself too much.”

“It’s my fault,” Song Dachuan sobbed helplessly.

Half an hour later, Zhao Shunhai finally learned what had happened. Song Dachuan had been working at an electronics factory in Shen City, but with the economy in decline these past two years, the factory went under. He returned to the village with his wife and son to start a business.

With little education, Song Dachuan had managed to save up 100,000 yuan over the years. He had planned to invest it in opening a courier station. But last year, Song Changjun had heart surgery, which wiped out most of their savings, leaving only 20,000 yuan.

For the past six months, Song Dachuan had been delivering packages in town, while his wife worked as a temporary teacher at a kindergarten. Their two young sons were just about to start kindergarten, and Song Changjun needed 300 yuan a month for heart medication.

Household expenses, kindergarten fees, medication costs—the family budget was stretched paper-thin.

At the end of last month, the price of the heart medication went up, and the monthly cost rose from 300 to 500 yuan. That extra 200 yuan was the final straw. They had no way to cover it, and it broke Song Changjun.

He couldn’t bear to see his son and daughter-in-law worry over 200 yuan every day. He was a deeply sensitive man, and lately he’d been spending more and more time in the cornfield. At the dinner table, he often said, “Once the corn is planted, I can rest, and so can you.”

Song Dachuan and his wife hadn’t thought much of it. They figured he just wanted a break after the planting was done. They never imagined he’d been thinking of ending it all.

As the couple wept in the hallway, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed down the corridor.

“How’s Dad?” A slightly plump woman in her thirties arrived.

“He’s still in the ICU,” Song Dachuan pointed toward the operating room.

Her knees buckled.

“Please go to the billing office to pay the medical fees,” a nurse said, handing them a slip after a brief conversation.

This time, the treatment itself wouldn’t cost much. But with a nationwide medicine shortage, Song Changjun’s regular heart medication was out of stock. The only available alternative was a more expensive substitute—1,000 yuan per month—and even that couldn’t be guaranteed to be in stock regularly.

The two stared blankly at the bill.

The nurse hesitated, then asked gently, “Should we proceed?”

“Yes!” the plump woman answered without hesitation.

Their household income was 4,200 yuan a month. She had already decided to start delivering packages after work—every extra 200 yuan counted.

She and Song Dachuan looked around the crowded hospital corridor. All around them were patients coughing violently. Some, like Song Changjun, suffered from chronic conditions. But many more had Acid Rain Respiratory Disease.

No medicine. No easy access to treatment. That was the harsh reality of the year 3030.