The raw howl bounced off the damp brick walls of the kitchen, shaking the aluminum soup pots hanging from the ceiling.
Qin Haoran remained on his knees, his forehead pressed against the wet tile floor. Soapy dishwater seeped through the knees of his designer jeans.
“Seventy-nine point four,” he sobbed, beating his fists against the cold bricks. “Seventy-nine point four! How can it be seventy-nine point four?!”
The kitchen door swung open with a quiet creak.
Lin Mo walked in holding a warm bowl of fresh soy milk and two crisp fried dough sticks on a paper plate. He wore a dark woolen sweater with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows.
He stepped over a puddle of greasy water, his boots clicking softly on the clean stone path.
“Keep it down, Haoran,” Lin Mo said, taking a bite of the dough stick. “Grandma Chen is rolling scallion pancakes in the front dining room. If you upset her, she will put you on turnip peeling duty until March.”
Qin Haoran lifted his tear-stained face. His floral apron was crooked. A piece of limp boiled cabbage was stuck to his left shoulder.
