In 1992, the plains of eastern Henan were baked by the sun in summer. The air was as thick as molasses, and every breath was scorching hot. The old locust tree at the entrance of the village, which had lived for an unknown number of years, had wilted and curled leaves, with a scorched yellow color on the edges, as if it could be broken into powder with a gentle twist. The cicada hides among the sparse branches and leaves, making a heart-rending cry. It is the only declaration of life in this land that refuses to succumb to the scorching heat.
