The Year I Turned Four, He Tied a Red String Around My Wrist, Then Went to Another World

When I was four, Dad tied me to the old locust tree at the village entrance with a red rope.

He said he was going to buy me candied hawthorns, but the sun set, the rope wore through, and he still hadn't come back.

I didn't cry, because before he left, Dad had sewn a crumpled lottery ticket into my collar.

He crouched in front of me, reeking of alcohol, and warned me:

“Er Ya, if Dad doesn't come back, take this paper and find a police officer named Zhao Guoqiang.”

I asked blankly, “What if the police officer won't listen to me?”

Dad's eyes turned red at once. He wiped his face hard.

“If he won't listen, tell him there's something in the basement of the apartment block in the north of the city that he's been searching for for ten years.”

Later, I really did find Uncle Zhao, and I found the basement Dad had told me about.

But when I saw the rusty iron box,

I finally understood that Dad hadn't just deceived the whole world. With that red rope, he'd tied down my entire life, too.