“Jingfan! Come home for dinner!” Mrs. Wang's call had barely drifted out over the courtyard fence when a clear reply came from outside: “Coming!” A boy of thirteen or fourteen stepped through the gate. Bits of grass clung to the back of his coarse cloth jacket, and half a basket of firewood weighed down his shoulders, yet he walked with a light step. Han Jingfan had fair skin and the fresh, neat features common among farmers, but his eyes were strikingly bright, like morning light reflected in a mountain stream. His heels knocked against the bluestone threshold, and before the fine dust they stirred had settled, the aroma of food from the kitchen had enveloped him.
