Forty Degree Fireworks

Before the ink of the guarantee signature was dry, the middle-class arrogance that Wang Anran had worked so hard to build collapsed in an instant and turned into the shackles of huge debts. Foreclosure, separation, and farewell... A series of cold parabolas drove him to the precipice of fate, and kicked him like a lonely soul into the withered mountain back village. There, the claws of the devil were ruthlessly wreaking havoc: Grandma Chen's wrinkled application form was soaked with the smell of medicine, and the yellowed and blurred ink paste looked like a pool of dried blood. Zhao Dezhu knelt on the field ridges that had been shaved by hailstones, and pressed the replanted seeds down to the flesh between his fingernails deeply into the soil. The pupils of the stone are welded on the fixed portraits of the parents, and the loading circle calculates the annual rings of the return date. ... There is no redemption, and there is no way to change one's destiny. Living is just a spark in the ashes: Wang Anping held a helmet covered with salt and frost and carefully sent the express package back to his hometown; Xiao Chen's eyes were soaked in the blue light of the examination, and he was looking for a "barnyard grassland" where he could plant himself in the gaps of the examination; At the end of each month, Wang Anran would lightly cross out a number like a fly on the heavy account book; ... There is only a beginning, no end. With every step you take, promise "I'm still here." The scorching earth is 40 degrees Celsius, but the fire has not been extinguished and the smoke has not dispersed. Go on...