In July in Lunan, the sun is like a red-hot iron, baking the dirt roads in Kaoshantun until white smoke rises. When you step on them, you can feel that the soles of the shoes have been slightly softened by the heat. Beside the grain-drying field at the east end of the village, Lin Ye's knuckles were turning white as he clutched the bamboo basket. The pigweed in the basket was withered, and the soil on it was soaked into mud by sweat, and formed a hard crust on the edge of the basket. He is twenty years old, not short, about 1.75 Meters tall, but so thin that his cheekbones are bulging. His white washed coarse cloth coat sticks to his back, outlining his rugged shoulder blades. His skin is dark brown from being exposed to the sun all year round in the mountains and baked in brick kilns. He only has a pair of eyes, as bright as the cold stars in the mountain stream, hiding unwillingness and stubbornness, revealing the unique tenacity of mountain people.
