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It was still early in the morning, and the dew on the green grass had not yet dried. Deng Yuchun's trousers were wet from the grass and stuck to his legs. A large group of sheep she herded were burying their mouths in the grass more than half a foot deep, and the "rustling" sound of grazing was like a cool breeze. Suddenly, the sheep began to cry "baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa"" as if they were disturbed by something. They stopped grazing and turned their heads in the direction of Yuanjiacun and called loudly. Deng Yuchun put her hand on her eyebrows and looked down the path. She saw a cloud of dust chasing a running child. The child was waving something in his hand, which was dazzlingly white under the rising sun. The child shouted loudly: "Mother - mother -" It was Deng Yuchun's fourteen-year-old son Yuan Jiameng. As he ran, he would often hold his stomach and bend over, coughing loudly in the flying dust.