My name is Qin Wen. I'm a beat cop at the Jian'an Road Police Station.
On our 1.8-kilometer stretch of old Guangrong Road, the fried buns at Uncle Wang's stall beneath the old elm tree on the northwest corner have smelled delicious for forty years. The sound of Doctor Ma sharpening knives at his clinic on the southwest corner can keep the evil spirits of Yaba Wa at bay. Mingchen has swept the floor at the Buddhist hall by the Huanghe Road intersection for thirty years. The old neighbors call us "Guardians of the Tombs". Now we call ourselves "Protectors". We protect the steam rising from Uncle Wang's pan of fried buns, the wind along the Shaying River embankment, and the bustling life of Jian'an Road, all 1.8 kilometers of it. But what we really protect isn't a grave. It's the hot buns in Uncle Wang's pan, the wind along the Shaying River embankment, and the unspoken spark of life on this street.
Then one day, they dug up a black bubble from the old warehouse that cried out, "Human sacrifice!" Only then did I understand: the pit my mother and the others filled in Yaba Wa forty years ago is about to open up again...
The author lives near Jian'an Road, and the jogging route is the same as the one in the book. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, I go to Railway Park; every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, I go to the Shaying River embankment.
