When I returned to the city that year, there wasn't enough room at home, so I slept in the kitchen for three years. The coal smoke made me cough up black phlegm, and the neighborhood office told unemployed youths like me to find our own way to make a living. Later, I secretly went to the coast to boil seawater into salt and sell it on the black market. There, I met a young veterinarian who was struggling just like me. She taught me to give sick cows salt water to bring down their fevers, and I taught her how to dry kelp to make quilt lining. On our wedding day, we swore over an iron pot, “When things get better, we'll eat plain white rice every day.” Now the supermarkets are overflowing with goods, but I still find myself thinking of that pot of bitter-tasting salt...
