In the embrace of the rabbit, Zhang Wenda felt as if he were still resonating with the Youth Center, a twinge of grievance welling up in his heart—why, when he had done nothing at all, did he have to endure this endless, senseless hurt?
But very soon Zhang Wenda shook off that emotion, for he knew it served no purpose other than making him feel bad; in society, no one allowed you to show weakness.
“Do you know what to do?” Zhang Wenda asked again.
The rabbit gently released its hold on Zhang Wenda; it said nothing, but that three-lobed mouth drooped slightly.
Seeing the rabbit’s expression, Zhang Wenda already knew the answer.
Co to think of it, perhaps the rabbit had so kind of ability, but that didn’t an it could solve his own troubles.
Though he felt deeply disappointed, he imdiately feigned indifference and said, “Ah, it’s okay, I was just asking casually, it’s not going to kill anyone. I can handle this small problem myself. I’m going now—goodbye.”
With that said, Zhang Wenda waved casually and walked into the pitch-black stairwell of the long slab building.
When he trudged over and arrived at the door of his own ho, his gaze drifted past the railing—and saw the rabbit standing there, quietly watching him.
“It’s fine, get busy; keep it up, worker bee!” Zhang Wenda waved back at it with a forced smile.
Then he saw the rabbit point with its finger to his right-hand pocket. “Go ask at Xinhua Bookstore; maybe they have your answer.”
After saying that, it turned and left.
Zhang Wenda paused briefly, then reached into his right pocket—and soon a green plastic ‘ticket’ the size of a lighter was placed in his hand; on it were three words written in traditional characters: “Function Ticket.”
“What is this? Why did the rabbit tell to take this to Xinhua Bookstore? Could this be hope for escaping the rules?”
Zhang Wenda’s eyes brightened once more, hope rekindled!
The rabbit couldn’t have given him this ticket for no reason—perhaps this was his true hidden reward!
Maybe this thing could solve the big trouble he was facing now… he couldn’t wait a single mont to hit the rules on him.
Brimming with excitent, Zhang Wenda returned ho—but as soon as he pushed open the door, he froze: a bowl of noodles long since gone cold sat on the table.
He glanced at the curtain behind the cloth cabinet—and at the two pairs of shoes in front of it—and Zhang Wenda’s expression gradually turned cold.
Silently, he walked to the sofa and quickly devoured the noodles; though they had clumped and tasted a bit salty, Zhang Wenda didn’t care—he ate heartily.
“Ahem—” a cough sounded from behind the curtain. With his mouth full, Zhang Wenda paused, cast another glance at the curtain, then resud eating.
Once his stomach was full, Zhang Wenda quickly washed the bowl; after a brief wash and tidy, he went straight to bed.
Perhaps from exhaustion and everything that had happened, before long Zhang Wenda drifted off; the small room gently filled with the sound of three breaths in unison.
The next day, Zhang Wenda deliberately slept in late; when he finally opened his eyes, he was alone in the cramped, old ho.
Yawning, Zhang Wenda got up, dressed imdiately, and, unable to wait, dashed outside—still clutching the ticket the rabbit had given him.
He didn’t know what this ticket was, but Zhang Wenda felt the rabbit wouldn’t have lied.
“Besides, yesterday was Friday and today Saturday—no school; I’ve got two whole days to deal with the rule punishnts on ,” Zhang Wenda thought as he walked along.
While walking, a strange aroma caught his attention; across the street, he spotted a fried dough stick stand, the golden youtiao sizzling and crackling in the oil.
“Boss, one youtiao please,” Zhang Wenda said as he hadn’t had breakfast.
“Sure thing! One cent!”
Chewing the crisp and fragrant youtiao as he walked, Zhang Wenda thought to himself, “Not bad—prices here aren’t too high.”
Maybe because his size had shrunk, he felt today’s youtiao looked extra long.
Just as he finished half, a black shadow leapt out from the grass beside him, making him freeze—he recognized that shade imdiately.
Holding youtiao in his mouth, he walked toward the bushes for a minute… and saw a familiar figure: the black cat from the Youth Center!
Before he could call out, he saw the cat hiss at a passing van and then dash toward the People’s Park across the road.
“Hey! Wait! It’s !” Zhang Wenda shouted behind it—but he didn’t know if it heard; it ran like the wind.
Just when Zhang Wenda thought he might lose it again, he saw the cat scamper up a nearby utility pole.
He followed its path with his eyes upward—and finally fixed his gaze on a huge bird’s nest on the pole.
It was a very peculiar treehouse—even in this weird world, it was strangely odd.
Seven or eight ters of giant coat hangers served as the fra, piled with all kinds of urban dry waste to form a top-heavy, giant treehouse; calling it a treehouse was a stretch—it looked more like a bird’s nest on a utility pole.
Zhang Wenda stared blankly at it when a slender figure erged—into view from the treehouse. It was a girl, a few years older than he, with asymtrical short hair, casually styled; her sun-bronzed skin was speckled with freckles.
She wore simple clothes; her right hand was wrapped entirely in an animal-skin sleeve. Most strikingly, Zhang Wenda noticed a cat ear standing upright on her head.
He thought his eyes were playing tricks—then he rubbed his eyes and realized it was real: aside from her normal human ears, she did indeed have a cat ear on her head.
Only then did Zhang Wenda realize the black cat was actually lying in the girl’s arms.
When Zhang Wenda spotted her, the girl also saw him; she tilted her head slightly in his direction, then slipped back inside the treehouse—and imdiately, a rope dropped down from within.
Zhang Wenda scratched his head, but on account of the black cat, he grabbed the rope with both hands and climbed up.
When he finally managed to climb up, he discovered more than one black cat inside—within the few square ters of the treehouse, they were all playfully romping about.
“I heard iqiu ntion you; thanks for saving its life,” the girl said. Her youthful voice carried a faint huskiness like smoke.
Before Zhang Wenda could speak, she extended a hand to him. “My na is Song Jianguo—you can call Jianguo. What’s your na?”
Zhang Wenda hesitated as he looked at her outstretched hand; the girl was exuding such an intense aura of assertiveness—he didn’t much like it.
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