Song Xian hesitated for a while.
The Skinny Guy and I took turns persuading her for more than ten minutes before the old woman finally relented.
We accompanied Song Xian back to her house.
She wanted to put the urns on the camp bed so her parents could bask in the sun.
As she spoke, the old woman grew deeply sorrowful. Her eyes reddened and filled with tears.
She touched the two urns remorsefully, then muttered to herself, saying things neither the Skinny Guy nor I could hear.
Song Xian wasn't nearly as concerned about the valuable little wooden box.
I put it on top of the TV stand.
The TV was still there, but it had been unplugged. It was an old, bulky set, not even a flat-screen. The TV stand was just as large and piled with odds and ends, but there was plenty of room for the little box.
Hardly anyone lived in Workers and Peasants Sixth Village anymore, and most of the valuables had already been taken from the houses. Still, there was no guarantee that burglars wouldn't break in.
The little box was tucked among the clutter, where it wouldn't draw attention from thieves.
I checked the power outlets, doors, and windows again.
When the Song family had come to sign the contract and verify the house's area, they had already checked those things. We'd simply watched Song Xian's two sons make a round of the house that time.
The power was off, and the doors and windows were all secured.
I looked at Song Xian.
She wiped away her tears, struggled to her feet, and made her way toward the door.
The Skinny Guy helped her along.
After we called another taxi for Song Xian and watched it drive away, I called both her