By sunrise, the black ice on the Sixth Ring overpass had been completely cleared by municipal road crews.
Back at Taichu’s central courtyard on Lotus-Prince Street, steam billowed from the kitchen windows. Grandma Chen was busy rolling dough for fresh scallion pancakes, humming happily as she sliced sweet winter turnips for a new pot of bone broth.
Every few minutes, she stepped out onto the porch to bring out fresh food. She set a plate of steaming scallion pancakes and two soft-boiled tea eggs on the stone table, patting Qin Haoran’s head with a warm, flour-dusted hand.
“Eat more, my good grandson,” Grandma Chen said with a fond smile. “You need your strength after jumping in front of that big iron truck.”
In the center of the flagstone courtyard, Qin Haoran sat on a carved stone stool beside the ancient plum tree.
He had taken a long hot shower to wash off the bitter highway grime and dried blood. He wore a clean white cotton undershirt and gray sweatpants. His chest was completely healed, without a single scar or ache where the forty-ton dump truck’s meteoric iron spikes had struck him.
Pinned to his left collar was a heavy, circular badge carved from imperial emerald jade.
