My Little Uncle Is Named Luo Yan

Zhang Xiaowei was a child who wasn't very bright.

He learned to talk a little later than other children his age, and he learned to walk a little later, too. By the time the others started kindergarten, he still struggled to say "Dad."

Some people said he was stupid, born sick, and would never get better—or that he wouldn't live very long.

Zhang Xiaowei's father would angrily yell at them and cover Zhang Xiaowei's ears. Then, after a long day at work, he would bring home a bowl of lotus root starch for Zhang Xiaowei and tell him that he wasn't stupid; he was just a little slower than other children.

Just a little slower. He'd get better in time.

Zhang Xiaowei didn't really like eating it, but he never said so. The lotus root starch grew colder and colder until, in the end, he still scooped it into his mouth.

What he liked more was the smell of barbecue that clung to his father whenever he came home.

Zhang Xiaowei's father ran a barbecue restaurant. Sometimes he brought Zhang Xiaowei along to the shop, where he would play by himself beside the register.

The smell of grilled meat filled his nose, along with the fragrances of all kinds of dipping sauces. He often watched the customers chew, imagining his own mouth stuffed full of meat.

But the doctor had said he couldn't eat meat. If he did, his hepatic encephalitis would get worse.

Zhang Xiaowei's childhood passed amid his longing for meat, the prohibition against eating it, and endless treatment.

As he grew up, he became much more normal.

He could keep up with other people his age. Though he was still slow sometimes, if he made an effort, strangers wouldn't guess that he was sick.

His father grew