The heat of the sunlight that had blazed fiercely through the afternoon had now weakened, like a beast whose power had run out. Pale golden light slanted across the dirt yard in front of the orphanage, and dust drifted through the evening air in thin streams. The boy stepped through the old wooden door, warped by time, carrying a basket in one hand and a heavy iron pot hugged against his chest.
His bare feet were dusty, and the back of his shirt was damp with sweat. Yet there was a certain spark in his eyes that hadn't been there on any other day.
He walked straight to the corner called the “bed,” which was actually nothing more than tightly packed straw covered with a sheet of coarse, faded cloth. He carefully set the basket and pot down beside him as if they were priceless treasures. Then he sat down and opened the pot's lid just a little. Cool steam from the water inside drifted against his face. He looked at what was inside, and the corners of his mouth lifted in quiet satisfaction.
“You're back?” Tiny asked. The sound of his and Mei Li's footsteps echoed softly across the old wooden floor.
“What happened to you? Why are you making that weird face and staring at the pot?” Mei Li asked, tilting her head.
Nash slowly closed the lid before looking up. “It's nothing. How did work go for you two?”
“We got four loaves of bread between the two of us,” Tiny replied, raising the coarse, dark bread in his hand for Nash to see. “What about you? How did it go?”
The boy stood up, drew a deep breath, and puffed out his small chest. He placed a hand over it like an actor announcing important news.
“Today, we're having a feast.”
Those words made both his friends freeze.
“What kind of feast?”
Nash beckoned them over, then opened the pot all the way.
Inside were large river shrimp, their hard shells reflecting the evening light, several clams stacked on top of one another, and fresh green vegetables still damp from the stream.
The two of them stared in silence.
“Can you eat those? I've seen them before, but I've never seen anyone eat them. I heard someone once tried to catch and eat them, but he said their heads were so hard you could barely bite through them. Worse, they cut his mouth. There was only some liquid meat inside the head. And these rocks…” Tiny asked, looking thoughtful. Mei Li wore much the same expression.
Nash chuckled softly. “I'll teach you how to eat them. You'll be surprised, I promise. There's vegetables too. You can eat all of it, trust me. So for now, you and Mei Li should gather plenty of dry branches for firewood. Better yet, find someone who knows how to start a fire and have them light it for us. I'll prepare the ingredients. We'll cook right here.”
He pointed toward the old fireplace, where a curved iron hook hung down for suspending a pot. Thick black soot clung to the edges of the bricks, telling the story of countless winters endured.
In truth, “prepare the ingredients” was merely a more ceremonial way of putting it. He had already done everything by the stream. The water spinach had been washed clean of dirt, the tough roots had been removed from the water mimosa, the clams had been soaked and rinsed repeatedly until they released all their sand, and the shrimp were still so fresh that their antennae twitched faintly.
“At least we have meat. Sigh… Even a little salt is out of reach,” he muttered to himself.
The boy walked back to the stream once more. The last light reflected off the surface in orange-red sparkles. He bent down and selected several smooth, palm-sized stones without sharp edges, then filled another pot with water and carried it back.
A little over an hour later, his two friends returned with bundles of dry branches clutched to their chests. Bits of leaves fluttered behind them. The other children began trickling back as well. Some dragged their feet, while others quietly hugged their stomachs.
Nash watched the scene in silence.
“At their age, shouldn't they be running around and having fun without a care in the world?” he murmured. His eyes held an emotion too heavy for his years.
He didn't notice the tall, broad figure walking in behind his two friends. The man was around forty, with reddish dark-brown hair and a matching mustache. He had the broad shoulders and powerful build of a veteran soldier.
It was Uncle Brad.
“Ready to light the fire?” he asked Tiny.
“Uncle Brad, you can light it now. We aren't using the firewood logs—we'll use the branches we gathered,” Nash answered in Tiny's place.
Brad turned to look at the boy, a flash of surprise passing through his eyes. This child was usually quieter than a shadow. “Oh, sure, kid. Come on, put them down.”
They piled the branches together. Dry wood cracked and snapped as it settled. Brad raised his hand and stretched out his long, slender fingers.
“FIRE.”
Whoosh~
Orange-gold flames shot from his fingertips, streaming brightly before surging into the pile of wood. The branches hissed as they caught fire, and the smell of smoke filled the air.
Nash's eyes flew open. This was real magic—not a story, not an imagination.
His heart pounded, but he forced his face to remain calm.
“It caught. By the way, what are you kids making?” Uncle Brad asked.
“Nash said he's going to make food out of them,” Mei Li replied, pointing toward the pot.
Brad looked at the shrimp in the pot and frowned. “Um, even if people have eaten them without any problems, they're still pretty dangerous for your mouth.”
“No problem. I'll have you taste them too. They definitely won't hurt your mouth.”
The big man let out a low laugh. “Ha ha ha! All right, then. If you can convince me they're safe to eat.”
Then he excused himself and returned to his post, leaving the flames blazing in front of the children.
“All right, let's get started.”
Nash hung the pot over the fire. The flames reflected orange-red across the iron's surface. He put the water spinach in first, and the leaves made a soft sound as they touched the water. He hesitated briefly over the water mimosa, then used one strand of water spinach to tie the water mimosa into a bundle before lowering it into the pot.
“Well, might as well make plenty of food.” He added enough water to cover the ingredients, then put the lid on the pot.
Outside, the sky slowly shifted from gold to a flushed red. The horizon darkened like cloth dyed in blood. The first star appeared, followed by others. A pale moon gradually rose above the tree line.
Nash opened the pot's lid. Steam mixed with the fresh, grassy smell of the vegetables and wafted up to his nose. The water bubbled gently, making little popping sounds. The shrimp began to change color, their shells shifting from dark gray to pale orange, while some of the clams opened their shells.
He put the lid back on.
“Doesn't smell good at all. Sigh,” he thought. To the other children, however, the smell made their stomachs growl in protest.
“Help me take it down, Tiny.”
The two of them worked together to lift the scorching-hot pot down. Steam rose and veiled their faces.
Nash looked for something to serve the food in and ran to the pile of old kitchenware. He found a large wooden tray. It was cracked and stained black, but it was still usable. There were no spoons or forks, though.
He picked up two dry sticks to use as chopsticks, then lifted the water spinach and water mimosa out and arranged them on the tray. A faint grassy smell rose from them.
“It's so hot, and it smells a little too grassy.”
He took off his shirt and wrapped it around his hands, then tipped the pot and poured the shrimp and clams onto the tray. Their shells clinked against the wood. He kept the cooking water in the pot, then turned to Tiny.
“Tiny, take the pot and fill it with water, then hang it over the fire. We're going to boil water to drink.” The stream looked clean, but Nash wasn't willing to risk it.
While they waited, the food cooled slightly. He picked up a shrimp and confidently twisted off its head. He peeled away the shell segment by segment, revealing smooth, firm flesh that was white with a hint of pink.
“How could anyone bite the head?” he thought, remembering what Tiny and the god had told him. “This world really is pretty backward.”
He peeled three shrimp and lined them up, then opened three more clams. Their milky white flesh trembled faintly in the steam.
He handed them to his friends, then picked one up and ate it to show them. He started with the shrimp, chewing slowly before swallowing, then ate a clam. The flavor was simple—no salt, no seasoning.
“Give it a try. It doesn't taste that great, but it won't kill you,” he told his friends.
Tiny and Mei Li stared at the shrimp in their hands. There was no hard shell anymore, no sharp spines—only soft, springy white meat.
The two exchanged a glance before deciding to put it in their mouths.
“Chomp.”
“Chomp.”
Their eyes suddenly widened.