My life wasn't that precious

The director splashed through the muddy water filling the courtyard and rushed to the main room's doorway. Her flashlight beam swung wildly through the rain, landing on a figure crouched behind the stove.

Jiang Xun was catching rainwater leaking through the roof in an enamel basin, then throwing it out the door whenever it filled.

His soaked hair clung to his forehead, and rainwater streamed down his chin. He wiped it off haphazardly with his sleeve, then went back to catching water.

"Jiang Xun!" The director grabbed his arm. The wind blew her raincoat hood inside out, so she simply pulled it off and clutched it in her hand. "The van's leaving any second. Get in!"

Jiang Xun set the enamel basin on the stove and turned his head toward her. "What about Shen Wangjing and Grandpa?"

The question caught the director off guard.

"There's no room left. The camera crew and their equipment have already filled the van. You two go first. Someone will come to evacuate everyone else later-"

"The van's full of machines," Jiang Xun interrupted. "Are machines more important than people?"

The director opened her mouth, only for rainwater to pour in and choke her into coughing twice.

Without waiting for her answer, Jiang Xun bent down, caught another basin of rainwater, and flung it out the door with a splash.

"Let Shen Wangjing and Grandpa get in. I'll walk there myself."

"Are you kidding me?" The director grew frantic. "The rain's getting heavier, and the village roads have been washed out. You're going to walk? Do you know how far the village committee office is from here? If anything happens to you-"

"Nothing's going to happen to me." Jiang Xun turned around. Water streamed down his face, but his eyes were dazzlingly bright.

"Besides, my life isn't that precious."

The director stood in the torrential rain, her radio filled with noisy evacuation reports from the various crews. She wiped the rain off her face and stared at Jiang Xun in silence.

The boy's tone had been utterly matter-of-fact when he said, "My life isn't that precious."

There was no petulance, no bravado, none of that resentment so common among rebellious teenagers who thought the whole world owed them.

It was more as though he simply, sincerely, and naturally believed it.

The day the trailer went live, the barrage of comments had called him a violent, ill-mannered thug. Meanwhile, this boy had been crouching on a field ridge, basking in the sun with a foxtail stem between his lips, completely unaware of what was happening online.

The production team had labeled him a "rebellious rich boy," but where was even a trace of the pampered delicacy a rich boy ought to have?

He was more like a weed that had forced its way through a crack in a rock. Give it some rain and it would live; deny it rain and it could still hold on.

The director had seen far too many spoiled rich kids who complained that the mud was dirty the first time they worked in the fields, claimed the food was sour the first time they drank thin porridge, and cried and screamed to go home to their mothers.

Over eleven seasons of the show, every season had guests breaking down in tears on camera, shouting, "No human being should have to live like this."

Jiang Xun had never cried once.

Perhaps this boy had truly never been properly cherished, so he didn't think there was anything about him that deserved special treatment.

As he understood it, you had to grab things for yourself and fight your own fights. As for your life-well, it was what it was.

No one had ever treated him as someone who needed protecting.

So he had never felt that he needed protection, either.

The director took a deep breath and snatched up her radio, her voice hoarse but her words coming fast. "Unload those two cameras from the back seat. Make room for Shen Wangjing and Grandpa Shen."

There were two seconds of silence on the radio. "Director, that RED-"

"Unload it!"

The director stuffed the radio into her raincoat pocket, then turned and shouted at Jiang Xun, "You're getting in with them!"

The van's rear door slid open, and the crew hurriedly hauled two cameras and a set of audio recording equipment off the back seat.

The director's heart bled. That camera was worth nearly a million and had only been serviced last month. If the rain ruined it, she'd have to kneel outside the station director's office and write a self-criticism when she got back.

But she couldn't worry about all that now.

Shen Wangjing lifted his grandfather out of the wheelchair and onto his back. Beside him, Jiang Xun held up a raincoat to shelter the old man, leaving most of his own body exposed to the rain.

Duan Qizhao, who had been huddled in the van for quite some time, wrapped himself in the half-soaked army coat and pricked up his ears at the commotion outside.

He poked his blue-haired head out from the back seat. Seeing Jiang Xun still standing in the rain, he pulled his raincoat hood over his head and jumped out, swearing.

"Jiang Xun, I must really owe you!"

He ran over, stumbling through the mud filling the courtyard, and helped Shen Wangjing support the old man's legs as they got him into the van.

His Balenciaga chunky sneakers had soaked in the muddy water until their original color was unrecognizable. The sight pained him so much that the corners of his mouth kept twitching, but his hands never faltered.

He and Shen Wangjing each supported one side, settling Grandpa securely in the back seat. Then he dug a blanket out of the van and spread it over Grandpa's legs, moving so deftly that he seemed like a completely different person from his usual careless, slouching self.

"Jiang Xun, hurry up and get in!" Duan Qizhao turned and shouted.

Jiang Xun had already reached the door and watched Shen Wangjing step aside after getting his grandfather into the van.

Rainwater streamed down Shen Wangjing's jaw. His black T-shirt was soaked through and clung to his body, but he made no move toward the door.

"You're not going?" Jiang Xun asked.

"There's no room."

"What do you mean, no room? Get in. I'll sit on your lap."

Shen Wangjing: "..."

Duan Qizhao: "???"

Beside them, the director stamped her feet anxiously. "Stop talking and get in, all of you! Shen Wangjing, you too! Squeeze in if there's not enough room!"

Shen Wangjing glanced inside the van.

His grandfather occupied one seat in the back, and the other two were just enough for Jiang Xun and Duan Qizhao. He looked away and walked over to the director.

"I'll walk. The cameras are wrapped up on the stove. Water won't get in."

The director froze.

Instinctively, she glanced toward the kitchen-

At some point, Shen Wangjing had wrapped her main camera tightly in plastic sheeting, slipped a fertilizer sack over it, and tied the opening firmly shut with hemp rope. It sat securely on the stove.

The director's throat tightened. That heart of hers, hardened beyond harm by more than a decade in the variety-show industry, ached from the pressure of a piece of plastic sheeting.

Before she could speak and try again to persuade Shen Wangjing to get in, she watched him turn and walk out through the courtyard gate.

The curtain of rain swallowed his retreating figure in an instant.

The van struggled to turn around in the mud. Its tires spun several times before finally finding purchase, and the engine let out a hoarse roar.

The production team's van had too little ground clearance to cope with this mountain road, churned to a mess by the torrential rain.

Every time a wheel rolled through a pothole, the undercarriage scraped against a jutting rock. The driver gripped the steering wheel, his forehead covered in sweat. Even at their highest setting, the wipers couldn't clear the muddy water from the windshield.

The headlights flickered twice, then went out.