Ma'am, I Really Didn't Sneak into the Country

"Put your hands up and don't move."

Sing Sing glanced at the double-barreled shotgun and slowly raised his hands.

"Auntie, let's agree on this first." He shrank his neck, his eyes filled with utmost sincerity.

"I raised my hand purely out of respect for local customs, but that doesn't mean I admit to illegal trespassing. I didn't even step over the threshold."

A wrinkled face peeked out from behind the crack in the door, gray hair tied back, and an old pair of glasses perched on his nose.

"Step back! Get away from the door!"

"If I back down any further, I'll fall!"

"Step back immediately and stop talking nonsense!"

Sing Sing, feeling remorseful, took two steps back off the steps, while the old woman lowered the muzzle of her gun.

"Name, tell me honestly."

"Stephen Zhou works in the Overseas Special Talent Recruitment Office, mainly responsible for helping unemployed people find new jobs, and occasionally mediates transnational labor disputes. He has full Five Insurances and One Housing Fund contributions, is a formally employed staff member, and is honest and trustworthy."

"Show me your identification."

"Our company has a rather unique nature, so we generally don't carry identification when we go out."

"Wallet! You lost it too?!"

"It got robbed by some crazy red-skinned guy; that bastard's hands are so dirty."

The old woman stared at him, scrutinizing him closely.

"A foreign man with no identification and no wallet appeared alone in the snowy mountains of Alaska?"

"Auntie, your summary is spot on. Even I think this person should be dragged out and shot on the spot."

"Why did you come here? Tell the truth!"

"Okay, here's what happened. I introduced a job at a steel mill to an elderly unemployed man wearing a welding helmet. He thought the base salary of 9,500 was too low, refused to accept the job, and even conspired with a deliveryman to forcibly pack me up and illegally transport me to Alaska."

The old woman's hand holding the gun didn't move. "Keep making things up, I'm listening."

"To put it more simply, I was kidnapped by a gang. They were going to stuff me into an iron ball and sink me into the sea. On the way, there was a car accident, and I took advantage of the chaos to cut open the iron ball and escape into the mountains. It's all remote and desolate, and I can't even hail a ride-hailing car."

What did you use to cut it open?

"A family heirloom kitchen knife, capable of slicing iron like mud."

Why did the gang kidnap you?

"I introduced a job to their boss, it was just a kind gesture that didn't earn me any credit."

What kind of job?

"Steelmaking, the kind that includes room and board."

Do you think I'm old and not as sharp as I used to be, so I'm easy to fool?

"Oh, ma'am, your gun is so well-maintained, not a speck of rust on the trigger guard. I wouldn't dare lie to a retired old man like you who can still single-handedly take down a brown bear!"

The gun barrel was raised slightly.

"An old uniform is visible by the wall, with a badge that reads 'Forestry Service.' There are calluses on the web of your right hand from years of using a hunting rifle, and the serial number of an illegal animal trap is hanging under the eaves."

Sing Sing glanced at the stove behind the door.

"Of course, who doesn't have a hidden identity these days? Maybe you're actually the godmother of Alaska's underground arms trade, retired and switched to selling wild honey, and are just waiting for your underlings to come in and call you Mrs. Margaret?"

Do you know me?

"It's written on the mailbox by the door. My eyesight is excellent."

Sing Sing rubbed his fingers together, which were raised above his head.

"Auntie, are you done questioning? It's awfully cold outside."

"If it's inconvenient for you to take me in, I can borrow your phone to call the police. If that's not possible, you can lend me a shovel so I can bury myself shallower and save on search and rescue costs when the ice thaws next spring."

The gun barrel left his chest, and Margaret put the shotgun away.

"Come in."

Sing Sing stepped onto the porch, his shoes brought in a layer of snow water.

"I knew you had a keen eye for talent; you're a truly virtuous person!"

"Take your shoes off outside, don't dirty the floor."

"These shoes have been through snow and mud, but they are essentially a pair of kind shoes. They have accompanied me all over the country and made great contributions to our country's talent introduction efforts."

Margaret raised her shotgun, "Take it off!"

"Shoes are easy to take off, but hard to put back on. If only life could be like the first time we met, could you please be lenient with me, ma'am?"

"Click!"

The shotgun is loaded.

Sing Sing bent down and took off his leather shoes. "I was just afraid of getting your floor dirty. I was just testing whether you have obsessive-compulsive disorder about cleanliness."

An old, gray-furred Hound crawled out from under the table, sniffed at Sing Sing's trouser leg, and then slowly retreated back to the fireplace.

Margaret hung the gun back on the wall and took an old blanket from the cupboard, throwing it over.

"Thank you so much, but this suit of mine has a built-in temperature control system. Forget Alaska, even if I were in Antarctica fighting penguins for territory, it would switch between warm in winter and cool in summer with a single click..."

As he boasted, he squeezed his way to the stove.

I rubbed my knees together a few times, then finally pulled the blanket over and wrapped it tightly around my legs.

Margaret lifted the lid of the iron pot by the stove, ladled out a bowl of soup with a wooden spoon, and casually placed it in front of him.

There were only a few pieces of potato and a few slices of softened onion in the bowl.

Sing Sing stared at the soup for a moment, then used a spoon to reach to the bottom and scoop out a round of soup.

"Auntie, where's the meat? Why is it all vegetarian?"

"No, please make do with this."

"Eggs, even just beaten eggs, will do. It'll give you some protein."

No, don't be so picky.

"I'll take any sausage, even starchy ones, my mouth is practically tasteless."

"No, just put it down if you're not going to eat it. Nobody's forcing you."

Margaret sat down on the other side of the table and picked up some coarse thread to mend the old gloves.

Sing Sing picked up the bowl and took a big gulp. His tongue was burned and he stuck it out, still mumbling incoherently.

"The taste was so-so, the cooking was alright, but the potatoes weren't cut evenly enough; I need to practice my knife skills."

A piece of hard bread was tossed to him. "The last one, don't complain about how hard it is."

"Wow, this bread is harder than Magneto's helmet! You could use it to crack walnuts."

Sing Sing picked up a piece of bread and tapped it on the corner of the table. He took a small bite, chewed it slowly, and then looked at the old Hound huddled up by the stove.

"Where are you going next?" Margaret asked, biting off a piece of thread.

"Los Angeles."

Sing Sing put the last piece of potato at the bottom of the bowl into his mouth, then wiped the bowl with bread.

"We need four unemployed people, three of whom are from extremely impoverished households, and one who is skilled in artificial rainmaking—a meteorological talent urgently needed by our Agriculture Department. This is a major project, crucial to the century-long plan of Northwest Greening Project."

"The highway is closed; there's no way to get through."

Sing Sing slowed down his wiping of the dishes.

Is there a train station nearby? Even a slow, old-fashioned train is fine; I'm not picky.

No, there are no railway tracks here.

"Airports? Private jets? I'd even take an unlicensed flight."

The nearest airport is outside the mountains; you can't get there.

"Snowmobiles are available, right? I'll pay."

"Oh no, you won't be able to leave for at least ten days."