The wind of 1970 licked the saline-alkali land at the eastern foot of Helan Mountain, rolling the sand into columns of dim smoke. Hu Shouren squinted his eyes and looked at the two hundred and thirty-four sheep in front of him - he had counted them every morning and evening, no more, no less, exactly this number - squirming on the slope with sparse turf. The wind blew up his blue cloth coat with eight patches, revealing the straw rope around his waist, with a rusty boning knife attached to the rope.
