Bamboo, Wood, Wolf, Horse - Chapter 14

Chapter 14: Urinary Incontinence?

Her bare, snow-pale skin shimmered faintly beneath the veil of gauze…

The instant Fukun’s eyes scanned that provocative first line, understanding hit him like a slap to the face. So that’s what kind of book Sun Wei had slipped him. He should’ve known—there was no way Sun Wei, of all people, had suddenly developed a literary streak or taken up philosophy. The guy could barely get through a newspaper headline without getting distracted.

“You reading it or what? If not, hand it back,” Sun Wei said nonchalantly, his hand already reaching out like a seasoned smuggler retrieving contraband.

Fukun didn’t answer. With the speed of a guilty teenager and the reflexes of someone who’d clearly done this before, he stuffed the book under his shirt and gave a casual shrug. “I’ll take a look. Might as well.”

Sun Wei let out a mischievous laugh, the kind that usually came right before detention or some kind of property damage. “Man, lately you’ve been acting all distant with Zhang Kexin. Thought maybe you were done with this stuff.”

“It was the exams,” Fukun said, offering a half-hearted smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Books like the one in his shirt were a secret genre of their own—part martial arts fantasy, part tragic romance, all cleverly disguised smut. They weren’t exactly front and center in the bookstore, but if you knew where to look—in the dark, dusty corners, under old cardboard signs—you’d find them. The pages were always worn thin, the covers barely clinging to the spines, and the ones in the worst condition? Those were the most treasured of all. Their disappearance rate was practically legendary.

But Fukun had never dared delve into them—until now.

He hated reading to begin with, and his mother’s household operated like a military base where every book and comic was subject to inspection. If she ever caught him with this kind of material, she wouldn’t just confiscate it—she’d probably declare war on the entire bookstore and send him marching in with a fake stick of dynamite to “cleanse the place.”

No, he usually stuck to harmless comics—the goofy, slightly inappropriate ones with exaggerated expressions and zero plot. He had stacks of them hidden around the house, and so far, they’d stayed under the radar.

But this summer? No homework. No responsibilities. No structure. Just long, slow days that stretched into humid, restless nights. If he could keep it under wraps, what was the harm?

Ever since that one accidental moment when he held Zhang Kexin’s hand, something in his mind had started shifting. It wasn’t anything dramatic—just brief, involuntary thoughts that came and went without explanation. The comics didn’t help; they hinted, teased, but never really showed anything. They were like puzzles with half the pieces missing.

But this book, and that single, tantalizing line of text—it felt like a glimmering key, dangling just out of reach, promising a door into a world he hadn’t dared explore.

After another loop around the courtyard, chatting idly with Sun Wei under the fading sky, Fukun eventually wandered back home.

By the time he stepped through the door, Fuyi Jie had already wrapped up his homework and was curled up on the floor with Diu Diu nestled in his lap, both of them contentedly watching TV. Their parents were nearby, casually discussing weekend plans to take the boys shopping for new clothes. The whole household buzzed with low-level comfort, and for once, no one paid him any attention.

Perfect.

Keeping his expression neutral, Fukun poured himself a glass of water and casually strolled into the small bedroom. He opened a drawer under the guise of looking for a notebook, then quickly slipped the book inside, tucking it behind a mess of comics and sketchpads. The drawer closed with a soft click, and he exhaled in relief, as if he’d just pulled off a bank heist.

Later. He’d read it later, under the covers with the lights off. Just a few pages. Just a peek.

He turned to leave the room—and nearly screamed.

Fuyi Jie was standing right behind him, holding Diu Diu like a furry little spy. The shock of being caught mid-crime combined with the surprise proximity of the dog made his knees buckle. He dropped into his chair with a thud, clutching his chest like someone recovering from a near-death experience.

“Are you trying to give me a heart attack?!” Fukun hissed, eyes wide.

“What did you just put in there?” Fuyi Jie asked, calm and curious, his gaze zeroed in on the drawer with laser focus.

“What do you mean?” Fukun said quickly, scooting in front of the drawer like a bodyguard shielding national secrets.

“The thing you just hid,” his little brother said again, and with the casual confidence of someone who knew he was going to get answers, he climbed up and made himself comfortable on Fukun’s lap.

“It’s nothing,” Fukun muttered. “Just a comic book. Sun Wei gave it to me.”

Which, technically, wasn’t a lie. There were comics in that drawer—just not the one Fuyi Jie was asking about.

Fuyi Jie gave him a long, skeptical glance, then, surprisingly, let it drop. He looped his arms around Fukun’s neck and leaned his head on his shoulder, sinking into a quiet sort of comfort.

“What’s up with you?” Fukun asked softly, patting his brother on the back in slow, soothing strokes.

“Is No. 1 Middle School on the way to Sanxiao?” Fuyi Jie asked, his voice soft, casual on the surface, but with an undertone that suggested something more.

“Not exactly,” Fukun replied after a moment’s thought. “If you go straight at the big intersection, that’s Sanxiao. But if you take a left there and keep going two more blocks, that’s where No. 1 is.”

“Oh…” Fuyi Jie’s voice dropped even lower—barely above a murmur now. “So… you won’t be walking with me all the way to school anymore.”

There was a heaviness in his tone, a quiet disappointment that made Fukun turn and glance at him. Then he chuckled. “So that’s what’s bothering you, huh? It’s not like I’m disappearing—I can still walk with you part of the way. I’ll turn at the intersection, remember? We’ll still have that stretch together.”

“Can’t you just walk with me all the way to Sanxiao?” Fuyi Jie asked again, so softly it was almost like he didn’t expect a yes.

Fukun scratched his head, visibly torn. “That’s kind of a long detour for me…” He trailed off, sensing the change in Fuyi Jie’s mood when the boy didn’t answer. Fukun squinted, trying to read between the lines. “Wait—you’re not trying to get out of walking, are you? I could teach you to ride a bike! We’ll ask Mom to get you one—problem solved.”

But Fuyi Jie stayed silent.

Fukun narrowed his eyes and suddenly clapped the table as realization dawned. “Ohhh! I get it—you can’t reach the pedals yet, can you?”

As soon as the words left his mouth, he broke into a grin. He didn’t mean to laugh—really, he didn’t—but the mental image of tiny Fuyi Jie struggling on a full-sized bike, legs swinging uselessly above the pedals, was just too much. He snorted.

Fuyi Jie stared at him, then let out a long, quiet sigh—half exasperation, half resignation. It was true; he couldn’t reach the pedals yet. But that wasn’t the point. He didn’t mind walking. He didn’t care how he got there. He just wanted to walk to school with Fukun.

Seeing the expression on his brother’s face, Fukun quickly softened. “Alright, alright, how about this—I’ll teach you how to push off and pedal at least half a turn, okay? Worst case, you balance on one pedal and glide like a scooter the whole way,” he said, chuckling and giving Fuyi Jie a light pat.

But Fuyi Jie had already turned away, twisting around toward the living room with indignation. “Moooooom—!” he cried out, drawing out the syllable with dramatic flair and unmistakable hurt.

“Hey! No, no, no—don’t call her! Don’t—” Fukun bolted upright in a panic.

Too late.

“Fukun!” Their mother was already marching into the room. “What did you do this time?”

“I didn’t do anything!” Fukun practically wailed. “We were just talking! I swear!”

“Talking? That’s your story? You talked him into looking like he’s about to cry?” she snapped, hands on hips, eyes narrowing.

“You know he has an emotional switch! He comes with one built-in!” Fukun turned to his brother, grabbing Fuyi Jie’s face and turning it toward him gently. “Okay, fine. I’ll walk you all the way to school. Happy now?”

Fuyi Jie’s eyes curved into delighted crescents, his lips spreading into a satisfied smile as he nodded. “Mm-hmm!”

Later that night, just before bed, Fuyi Jie returned from the bathroom to find their room quiet. Fukun was nowhere to be seen—probably off in the public bath again. The weather had been stifling lately, and Fukun had taken to washing himself four or five times a day just to cool off.

Fuyi Jie wandered into the little room, eyes drifting toward Fukun’s drawer.

The thing was a disaster zone—always had been. Half the time, it jammed from being overstuffed with junk. But tonight, it pulled open with a reluctant groan, revealing the usual chaos inside.

Stacks of comic books and notebooks covered in doodles filled the top layer, along with pencils scattered haphazardly like fallen twigs in a forest floor. It was a mess only Fukun could navigate.

Fuyi Jie reached in deeper, fingertips brushing past the clutter, feeling his way toward the very back of the drawer.

And then—there it was. Buried beneath all the other noise—something different. Something old, tattered, the cover worn soft like cloth, the corners frayed and folded from countless hands.

A very broken book.

Although Fukun’s drawer was an absolute mess, there was one thing he always treated with care—his comic books. As chaotic as the pile looked, he would never let them get crumpled or torn. So when Fuyi Jie pulled out a book with a spine fraying at the edges and pages soft and bent with age, he knew immediately—it couldn’t possibly belong to Fukun.

He slid the book free from the heap and let it fall open in his hands.

Flipping through the pages absently, he couldn’t help but compare it to the books over at Xia Fei’s house. This one was dull in comparison—no colorful covers, no exciting scenes, no magical creatures or kung fu battles. Just boring words in black and white. He was about to toss it back into the drawer when something odd made him pause.

There it was—a page almost entirely filled with ellipses.

Line after line of dot-dot-dots, trailing endlessly across the page like a long breath someone couldn’t quite finish. Fuyi Jie had read a lot of books—fantasy, adventure, even a few old mystery novels his neighbor lent him—but he had never seen a page like this. Curious, he stopped to read more closely.

Ah… don’t… don’t do that… mm… mm… I’m so hot… good brother… oh…

What… was this?

His eyes blinked slowly, as if unsure whether to move forward or slam the book shut.

But he kept reading.

Shirt pulled open… pants yanked down… rolling around…

Every word was simple. Words he’d known since he started school. But strung together like this, they made no sense—and yet, somehow, they did. A strange kind of sense that wasn’t logical, but felt like it meant something. Something that made his face burn, something that sent a prickling heat crawling up the back of his neck. He couldn’t explain it, but hidden between all those suggestive ellipses was a kind of… signal. An unspoken tension that made his heart beat too fast.

Without realizing it, he slammed the book shut.

He shoved it back into the drawer, tucked it behind the notebooks and the pencils and the comics, exactly where he’d found it. Then he sat down on the edge of the bed, staring blankly at the wall, his mind spinning.

So this was what Fukun didn’t want him to see.

The contents of that book… it had something to do with biting tongues—no, not quite. It felt even more overwhelming than that. Messier. Deeper.

A frown creased Fuyi Jie’s face. Something inside him squirmed. He didn’t like it. Not because he was scared, but because it made him feel wrong—like he’d opened a door he wasn’t supposed to find.

He shot to his feet.

His body moved faster than his thoughts. He dashed out of the room—and ran straight into Fukun, who had just come back from the bathhouse, still bare-chested, his skin damp and warm from the steam.

“Whoa!” Fukun staggered backward, caught off-guard. “What’s the rush? Got a stomach emergency or something?”

Fuyi Jie didn’t reply. He bolted past him into the kitchen.

That was when Fukun realized—something was off. He chased after his little brother, worry tightening in his chest.

He burst into the kitchen just in time to see Fuyi Jie hunched over the sink, the faucet gushing cold water, both hands gripping the edge like it was the only thing holding him up. His head was bent low, and he was dry heaving over the drain, gasping between gulps of air.

The sight sent a jolt through Fukun. He rushed over, placing a trembling hand on Fuyi Jie’s back, rubbing gently. “Hey, what’s wrong? Did you eat something bad? You’re not sick, are you?”

Fuyi Jie shook his head without a word, breath ragged, his shoulders trembling slightly.

Fukun watched him for a few moments. Nothing came out—no vomit, no food, just empty retching and that unsettling sound of his brother’s breath catching in his throat. He grabbed his towel from around his neck and wiped the sweat clinging to Fuyi Jie’s face. “You’re scaring me here. What happened? Why’re you throwing up like this? You still feel sick?”

Fuyi Jie shook his head again.

And then, unexpectedly, his arms reached out and hooked around Fukun’s neck. He pulled him close, resting his forehead against his brother’s collarbone, his voice muffled.

“It’s nothing. Just… don’t tell Mom.”

Fukun hesitated for a beat. Then nodded. “Alright. I won’t.”

Without another word, he scooped Fuyi Jie up in his arms and carried him back toward the room.

In the distance, their parents’ murmured conversation drifted faintly from behind the bedroom door. They were already tucked away for the night, chatting softly about something trivial, unaware of what had just unfolded.

Back in their shared room, Fukun laid Fuyi Jie gently down on the bed. He switched on the “Lucky Red” fan by the corner and angled it toward his little brother. Cool air rustled the sheets as he reached out to feel Fuyi Jie’s forehead.

It was soaked in sweat.

“Did you get heatstroke or something?” Fukun asked, crouching beside the bed with a frown, worry creasing his brow. “It’s not even that hot today.”

There was genuine concern in his voice. Fuyi Jie had always been the healthier one between them—not the type to roughhouse in the mud like Fukun had growing up, but still sturdy in his own right. Even in the depths of winter, he barely caught so much as a sniffle. So to see him suddenly vomiting like that? It rattled him.

“Want me to get Mom to find some medicine for you?” he offered, voice softening.

“No need. I’m fine now,” Fuyi Jie shook his head firmly, then repeated himself with extra conviction, as if to ward off any further concern. “Really. I’m okay.”

Fukun didn’t press. He kept quiet and nodded, choosing not to call their mother. She was always praising Fuyi Jie for being so sensible, so mature—never needing the adults to fuss over him. If the kid said he was fine, he probably meant it.

Still, Fukun stared at his brother’s face for a moment longer. The color had returned—less pale than before. His breathing had steadied too. Nothing looked outwardly wrong anymore.

“You want to sleep with me tonight?” Fukun asked after a pause.

Lately, they hadn’t been sleeping in the same bed. Fukun had been busy studying for exams, and Fuyi Jie had a habit of kicking and tossing around in his sleep. Plus, with the summer heat pressing down like a blanket, it was just more comfortable to sleep apart.

“It’s too hot,” Fuyi Jie mumbled, shutting his eyes again.

“Alright, alright. But if you feel sick again, wake me up, okay?”

“Mm.”

With his eyes still closed, Fuyi Jie could tell Fukun hadn’t moved away yet. He could feel the weight of his presence beside the bed. For a moment, it was silent. Then he heard the faint creak of the drawer being opened, quietly, as if Fukun was trying not to draw attention to it.

A moment later, the bed above him dipped gently as Fukun climbed into the top bunk.

The main lights had already been turned off. Only the dim glow of the small desk lamp Fukun kept by his pillow spilled down from the top bunk, casting soft, shifting shadows across the room.

Fuyi Jie lay there in silence, staring up at the slats of the bed above, knowing without a doubt what his brother was doing.

Fukun was reading that book.

Once again, those strange phrases echoed in his mind. Those sentences littered with ellipses. The vivid descriptions of parts of a woman’s body that he didn’t even know had names. The book didn’t just stop where biting your tongue would. It went even further.

Much further.

He turned over and curled his arms around his belly, face pressed into the pillow.

There weren’t any words for what he was feeling. It wasn’t exactly fear. It wasn’t anger. It was a kind of twisting discomfort—an ache in his gut that came from a place he couldn’t name.

Part of him was afraid. If Fukun had the same reaction he did—if he threw up or looked shaken—he might figure it out. He might know someone had found the book. He might guess it was Fuyi Jie. And then what? Would he be mad?

But… up above, there was nothing but the soft rustle of turning pages.

No gagging. No thud of feet hitting the floor. No rush to the sink.

Fukun remained quiet.

Almost too quiet.

Fuyi Jie found it strange—stranger than anything. He lay there thinking about it, his mind spinning in slow circles. Eventually, as he rubbed the edge of his pillowcase between his fingers, sleep began to creep in. His eyelids grew heavy.

But just as he was drifting off, the bedframe gave a gentle shake.

He heard it then—a soft sigh from the bunk above. But it wasn’t the usual sigh Fukun made when he was bored or sleepy. No, it was the same kind of sigh he gave when their mom cooked something really good and he’d eaten just a little too much—leaning back with a hand on his stomach, eyes half-closed in satisfaction.

That kind of sigh.

Fukun picked up the little alarm clock beside his pillow and glanced at it. Past 1 AM.

Then he adjusted his pants slightly and began to climb down, slow and careful, the way you do when trying not to wake anyone.

His head felt a little light—he couldn’t tell if it was from staring at the pages too long or because of the stuff written inside those pages. Probably both.

He hadn’t read every word. He was a slow reader to begin with, and this kind of book… this kind of book didn’t need to be read line by line. He had skimmed through, skipping the boring parts, searching out those scenes.

There weren’t many of them, honestly. All the “exciting” bits combined probably didn’t make up even a twentieth of the whole book.

But still… after reading it once, he couldn’t help but flip back and read those scenes again.

As he climbed down from the bed, Fukun cast a quick glance toward Fuyi Jie.

The younger boy was sprawled face-down, utterly still, seemingly deep in slumber. His breathing was steady, slow. Peaceful.

Fukun hadn’t even noticed when he’d fallen asleep. He’d been too absorbed in the book, too focused on those pages and the images they stirred in his mind. The soft rustling of pillowcases below had barely registered.

Slipping out of the room with practiced quiet, he padded swiftly down the hallway toward the bathroom.

He stood there for a long time, staring blankly at the tiled wall, one hand resting on the sink, waiting—but nothing happened. His body refused to cooperate. Not a single drop.

His mind, however, was anything but still.

It churned restlessly with imagined scenes—the book’s imagery lingering like smoke after a fire, curling through his thoughts, refusing to dissipate.

With a quiet sigh, he gave up and turned around, dragging his feet slowly back down the corridor. He paused at the washbasin and splashed cold water on his face, hoping it might help clear his head.

Then, without meaning to, he stopped in the middle of the hallway and looked up at the moon outside the window.

It hung low and silver in the sky, pale and expressionless, like an indifferent eye watching him. He stared at it in a daze, letting his thoughts float. Only after that strange, swelling tension in his body gradually faded did he finally return to the bedroom.

But unlike other nights, he didn’t fall asleep within minutes.

He tossed and turned in his bunk for what felt like half an hour, his mind looping again and again through the scenes he’d read—scenes so vivid, they played out behind his eyelids like a reel of film on repeat.

And then, he dreamt.

Again.

The dream began, like so many others, with Zhang Kexin’s hand in his.

It was a tired premise, recycled from earlier dreams. Once again, he found himself pulling her gently down the street, hand in hand, heading toward some food stall. But this time, she was dressed differently—scantily, provocatively. Her top was cut low, and the gleaming expanse of her white chest wavered with each step, catching his eyes and muddling his thoughts.

At one point, she bent forward to pick something up, and he instinctively glanced down her collar—but saw nothing. Just skin, soft shadows, and the frustrating promise of more.

Midway through their grocery run, the dream suddenly shifted. Without warning, the backdrop morphed into the living room of their house. The two of them were now sitting on the couch together.

Zhang Kexin’s skirt had become shorter—scandalously so—and her long, pale legs were stretched out in front of her like porcelain columns catching the light. He was still holding her hand, but at some point, it had migrated—his fingers now resting on her thigh.

He didn’t even know when it happened.

Slowly, tentatively, his hand began to move.

Upward.

Little by little.

The dream looped like a tape stuck in a VCR—rewinding, replaying, pausing, then starting again from the beginning. Over and over, the same sequence played until, at last, Fukun woke with a jolt, his entire body damp with sweat.

He stared up at the ceiling, disoriented, breathing heavily. His hand had never reached beneath the hem of her skirt.

Outside the window, the cicadas were already shrieking in chorus, their relentless chirping marking the arrival of another scorching summer morning.

He lay there, unmoving, eyes fixed on the cabinet bolted to the ceiling above.

The room was quiet.

By this hour, their parents would have already left for work. Fuyi Jie had probably finished his morning jog and was likely out in the courtyard playing with Didi.

Fukun sat up slowly, stretching a little, about to swing his legs off the bed—when something felt… off.

He froze.

A strange sensation stirred in his lower body, a faint wetness clinging uncomfortably between his legs.

Frowning, he hesitated, then lifted the thin towel blanket that had been draped over him. With growing unease, he reached down and touched the front of his pants.

Damp.

Sticky.

His breath caught in his throat.

What the hell? Did I… pee myself?

That couldn’t be right. That shouldn’t be right. He wasn’t a little kid anymore. Bladder control wasn’t exactly an issue.

Yanking his waistband forward, he took a quick peek.

And then it hit him.

Oh.

Oh, shit.

Not urine.

Realization struck like a lightning bolt.

Scrambling to his feet, he practically flung himself out of bed, muttering under his breath, already halfway to changing out of his underwear.

Just then, Fuyi Jie came back into the room, panting slightly from exertion, with Didi trotting along behind him. As soon as he opened the door, he caught sight of Fukun, who was in the middle of changing his underwear—half-bent, one foot raised as he tried to wrangle it off.

Startled, Fukun nearly toppled over.

“You wet the bed?” Fuyi Jie asked, puzzled, tilting his head. His voice was casual, innocent—a passing question with no real weight.

“As if everyone wets the bed till second grade like you did,” Fukun shot back, clutching his used underwear in one hand as he bolted out of the room.

“Then why are you changing them?” Fuyi Jie called after him, raising an eyebrow.

“Got all sweaty. Feels gross.”

But Fuyi Jie wasn’t so easily fooled. As Fukun passed by, he reached out and swiped a hand across his older brother’s back. Smooth. Dry. Not a trace of sweat. Not even a damp patch.

A few minutes passed.

Fukun returned, carrying his freshly washed underwear, the fabric still dripping slightly from the hurried rinse. That alone made Fuyi Jie do a double take. His brother? Washing his own underwear? Willingly?

That had to mean something.

He was just about to ask what the hell was going on when Sun Wei came barreling in, face slick with sweat, dragging Fukun by the arm and begging him to come shopping for clothes. Said Fukun had good taste—could help him pick something that didn’t make him look like a discount mannequin.

“I’ll be back soon,” Fukun said, climbing back onto his bunk. “I’ll bring you an ice cream.”

“Okay.” Fuyi Jie nodded obediently, but his eyes were locked onto Fukun’s movements.

He noticed how, as his brother moved, he angled his body slightly, using it as a shield. With subtle motions, Fukun tucked yesterday’s book—that book—down the front of his pants, hiding it like contraband.

After Fukun and Sun Wei left, Fuyi Jie remained seated, his eyes drifting toward the underwear his brother had washed and left hanging neatly on the rack. He stared at it for a long while.

There was nothing unusual about it. No weird stains, no strange marks—nothing to explain why Fukun had been so desperate to change first thing in the morning. Or why he’d washed it himself like it was some secret mission.

Something about that book had changed him.

Something weird.

But what exactly was written in there?

That, Fuyi Jie couldn’t ask his parents. No way. It was one of those things you didn’t talk to adults about. They’d either laugh it off or make it weirder.

Fortunately, there was someone else he could ask.

Xia Fei.

When he wasn’t cooped up in his room, Xia Fei could usually be found leaning on the corridor railing, gazing blankly at the trees in the courtyard as if he were lost in some far-off memory only he could access.

Fuyi Jie rarely saw him go out. Only when Zhang Qingkai came by would Xia Fei sometimes go downstairs for a short walk. Their mom had said Xia Fei’s health was deteriorating. No medicine seemed to help anymore. Some days were better, most weren’t.

Still, no matter how frail he looked, Xia Fei always had a smile on his face.

When Fuyi Jie wandered up to him now, Xia Fei turned to him with that same easy warmth and asked, “Your brother went out?”

“Yeah, went shopping with Sun Wei. He’s got a good eye for clothes, apparently.”

“Want some mung bean soup?” Xia Fei reached over and gave his head a gentle ruffle.

“No thanks.” Fuyi Jie tilted his face up to meet Xia Fei’s gaze, his expression a little serious. “Xiao Fei-ge…”

“Hmm?” Xia Fei looked at him, smile still lingering. “What is it?”

Fuyi Jie gave a small nod, not quite sure how to put it into words.

“Come on. Let’s go inside.” Xia Fei patted his back and led him into his room.

Fuyi Jie sat down on the edge of Xia Fei’s bed, cradling a shiny red apple in both hands. He bent his head and began nibbling at it in silence, teeth carving away small bites like he was buying time.

Xia Fei didn’t rush him. He simply leaned back in his bamboo lounge chair beside the bed, watching him with that calm, patient air of someone who had all the time in the world.

It wasn’t until the apple was nearly gone, chewed down to the core, that Fuyi Jie finally raised his head and said quietly, “I read a book.”

“Oh?” Xia Fei’s eyes glimmered with gentle curiosity. “What kind of book?”

“A book my brother brought home…” Fuyi Jie trailed off, lips pressing into a nervous line. He bit down gently, as if unsure how to continue.

“Your brother brought it home?” Xia Fei propped his fingers against his temple, his expression thoughtful—as if a light had just clicked on in his mind. Fukun wasn’t exactly the bookish type. Even when he read comics, he’d skip the dialogue and just scan the pictures. “Did you finish it?”

“No… just read one page.” Fuyi Jie kept his eyes lowered, fixated on the half-eaten apple in his hand, the skin bitten away in uneven little arcs.

Xia Fei waited a few beats, giving him time. When the silence stretched on, he gently ventured, “Was it that kind of book?”

“What kind?” Fuyi Jie blinked, momentarily confused.

“Uh…” Xia Fei hesitated, biting his lower lip, clearly unsure how to broach that topic with a ten-year-old. After a moment’s pause, he tried again, carefully, “You know… a book where a man and a woman are… together?”

“Yes!” Fuyi Jie nodded quickly—almost too quickly—relieved that someone had finally said the thing he’d been dancing around but hadn’t known how to describe. “Exactly that kind!”

“And then?” Xia Fei pressed gently.

“Then…?” Fuyi Jie looked up, a little puzzled. “Then what?”

“I mean… why did you come to me about it?”

“Because…” Fuyi Jie’s brow furrowed, his fingers tightening around the apple core. “Because…”

“Yijie,” Xia Fei interrupted softly, getting to his feet. He walked over to the desk and picked up a notebook and a pen. “Come here. Let me explain something.”

“Explain what?” Fuyi Jie looked up at him with wide eyes.

“Let me tell you a little bit about men and women,” Xia Fei said, the pen tapping lightly against his lips. “It’s really not something weird, I promise.”