On his first day at work, Fang Zhun saw a line of small gray words floating on the outside of the three-ounce bag of meat in Grandma Qin's hand: Thirty-seven grams missing.
He put the weights on the chopping board and weighed the meat again in front of more than twenty people.
The meat stall owner asked him: Who are you?
He said: I count thirty-seven grams.
From that day on, he could see "what was missing" in everything he looked at - thirty liters of oil was missing sixty milliliters, and a box of weights was missing one weight.
There are things he can't see. The steel bar in Jiangpan Xinyuan that was 1.4 Millimeters thinner was measured by the supervisor with a caliper and read to him on the phone.
He has no establishment, no law enforcement power, his work badge is plastic, and his name is almost worn out.
He only has one weight left by his grandfather.
Later the weight was sent for inspection.
It's 0.4 Grams shy.
