“I’m afraid you misunderstand, Comrade Guozhi.” Qinyu’s smile stretched wider, a slow, predatory curve that seemed utterly alien on her usually placid face. “This radio is a gift. My husband built it for me.” She gestured lazily at Zhou Hanchen. “He wouldn’t sell it for a mere thirty yuan, not when it brings his wife such profound joy.” Zhou Hanchen, who had been listening with an unreadable expression, nodded. “She speaks the truth,” he said, his voice flat. “It’s not for sale. It’s for Qinyu.” Li Guozhi’s face, already flushed with avarice, mottled to an indignant purple. “A gift? What kind of gift costs a month’s wages? This is government property, salvaged goods! You think you can just…” He trailed off, remembering Rulan and her sharp elbow digging into his ribs. He couldn't accuse Hanchen of theft without implicating the elder who’d allowed Hanchen access to the scrap heap. “Nonsense!” Rulan interjected, her voice shrill. “Thirty yuan is a princely sum, Hanchen! Think of your debts! You could buy a new roof, or perhaps even… a decent meal!” She shot a venomous glance at Qinyu, implying her sister was the reason for their destitution. Qinyu merely blinked, then slowly extended a hand. “Well, if you insist,” she said, her voice a theatrical sigh. “A loving wife would never refuse such an opportunity to alleviate her husband’s burdens. Hand it over, Comrade Guozhi.” Li Guozhi hesitated, then, with a huff of exasperation, pulled out a wad of grimy notes from his pocket. He slapped them into Qinyu’s palm. Qinyu’s fingers, usually so languid, moved with the speed of a startled sparrow, snatching the money before Hanchen could object. A thick stack of ten-jiao notes. It was more cash than she’d seen in her life. “A pleasure doing business with you,” she chirped, tucking the money into her waistband. Her ‘HP’ bar, previously a constant low thrum of anxiety, seemed to brighten, if only in her imagination. The house debt. Gone. Just like that. Li Guozhi, now beaming, reached for the radio. “Excellent! The village head will be thrilled. A radio for the brigade office, just like he wanted. I knew you’d come to your senses, Hanchen.” He lifted the polished wooden box as if it were a fragile bird. Just then, a stern voice boomed from the path leading to the Hanchen home. “Li Guozhi! What in the name of the Ancestors are you doing?” Li Guozhi froze, the radio clutched to his chest. Li Guang, the head of the Agricultural Brigade, stood framed in the doorway, scowling darkly. Behind him stood Old Man Li, a member of the Ration Committee. “Uncle!” Li Guozhi stammered. “I… I bought this radio! For the office, just as desired!” Li Guang’s eyes narrowed, sweeping over the scene: Qinyu, lounging, inexplicably holding a wad of cash; Hanchen, silent and watchful; Rulan, looking caught between triumph and fear. His gaze landed on the gleaming radio. “Bought it?” Li Guang roared. “From whom? This is public property! Scraps! How dare you use collective funds for personal gain? And Hanchen, you fool! You dare sell brigade assets? This is speculation!” “But… but I paid for it with my own money!” Li Guozhi protested, his face crumbling. “Thirty yuan! She took it!” He pointed a quivering finger at Qinyu. “That much cash? For that pile of junk?” Li Guang snatched the radio from his son’s grasp. He examined the craftsmanship, a flicker of surprise in his eyes, quickly replaced by a scowl. “This is a clear case of profiteering! Hanchen, you are under observation! As for you, boy,” he turned to the lad, his voice dangerously soft, “you’re confined to quarters for a month. And this radio,” he held it aloft, “is now confiscated property of the brigade. It will be thoroughly inspected for any… irregularities.” The young buyer gaped, then let out a wail, stomping his foot like a spoiled child. “No! It’s mine! I paid for it!” Li Guang merely walked away, the radio cradled possessively. Old Man Li followed, shaking his head. Rulan watched her fiancé’s childish outburst, her face a mask of mortification. This wasn’t the rich, influential husband she’d envisioned. This was a whining buffoon. Her backup plan, the secure engagement, was fracturing beneath his petulance. Qinyu, meanwhile, had already handed the paper notes to Hanchen, her face glowing. “See? I told you it was a good idea to keep the servers running. Now we can get a proper bed. Maybe even some silk pillows.” She patted his arm. “You’re so good at this ‘earning money’ thing. Think of all the comfortable things we could buy.” Hanchen looked down at the money, then at Qinyu’s expectant face. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. “Pillows, you say?” And so, a new enterprise was born, whispered in hushed tones over steaming bowls of millet porridge. Qinyu, ever the strategist of comfort, framed it as ‘necessary maintenance for optimal relaxation.’ Hanchen, under the guise of collecting scrap, began to discreetly accept requests for repairs of various broken appliances: radios, mechanical desktop fans, even a rusted battery-powered toy truck. Word spread through the village and beyond, carried by hushed conversations at the well and covert notes passed during market days. Fang Xiaobo, Qinyu’s bewildered but loyal younger brother, became Hanchen’s indispensable, highly-paid assistant. His payment? A steady supply of hard candies, discreetly procured by Hanchen from the nearest town. Xiaobo, perched on a wobbly stool near the open door, his cheeks bulging with the latest treat, kept a vigilant watch. “Someone’s coming!” he’d chirp, a lollipop stick protruding from his mouth, sending Hanchen scrambling to hide his tools and the dismantled electronics beneath old sacks. Within weeks, the house debt was a forgotten nightmare. Hanchen pressed the final few yuan into Qinyu’s hand, his gaze direct. “It’s done. The house is safe.” Qinyu, for once, sat upright. She looked at the money, then at Hanchen, a genuine, unburdened smile gracing her lips. “We did it, Hanchen. We’re safe.” The ‘HP’ bar, she imagined, was now glowing a robust, unyielding green. But security in Wutong was fragile. Rulan, her engagement to the cadre's nephew now officially on the rocks after another public spat, seethed with quiet rage. She watched Hanchen’s home, noticing the unusual comings and goings, the faint gleam of new tools, the strange absence of the heavy, soul-crushing despair she expected from her sister. She overheard whispers of ‘miraculous repairs’ and ‘machines brought back from the dead.’ Her ambition, once fueled by dreams of future wealth, now curdled into pure, unadulterated jealousy. One evening, under the shroud of a moonless sky, Rulan slipped away from her home. Her footsteps were quiet as she made her way to the Ration Committee office, a place where whispers could become chains. She knocked, a small, nervous sound that belied the venom in her heart. Later that night, the crickets sang their monotonous song, undisturbed by the soft snores from Hanchen’s home. Qinyu was dreaming of silk pillows, Hanchen of new wiring diagrams. Suddenly, a harsh pounding echoed through the quiet night, followed by gruff shouts. The door to their small, secure enclosure burst inward, splintering with a deafening crack. Lanterns swung wildly, illuminating the harsh, unyielding faces of the Ration Committee members, Old Man Li among them. They stormed inside, their eyes fixed on Hanchen, who was now sitting bolt upright in his bed, staring in disbelief. “Zhou Hanchen!” Old Man Li’s voice was a rasping command, cutting through the night. “You are under arrest for capitalist speculation!”

Capitalizing on Comfort