You're a US police officer, what are you thinking about going back to the East for?

Chapter 240 Old Soldiers Never Die (1 words)

"The doors will fall off in another two months," Kiara said, climbing out of the back seat and hanging her DSLR camera around her neck.

"Two months?" Dane locked the car and put the key in his jeans pocket. "I said last week that the only way out for this car is to drive it to the junkyard and then the three of us will split the scrap car subsidy."

"That will have to wait until this job is finished."

Marco pulled at the collar of his jacket.

The three of them stood on the street, looking at the queue in front of the mosque across the street, and then Kia scratched her head.

"We walked over and just asked, 'Hey, who's the boss here?' And then what?"

"I don't know either." Marco put his hands in his jacket pockets. "Have you ever seen us get to the final steps of an investigation without improvising?"

As you get closer, the aroma of the mutton soup becomes even stronger. The fragrance of star anise, cinnamon, and the oil from the simmered mutton bones wafts into your nostrils along with the cool November air.

Kiara's stomach rumbled.

"To be honest, I want to get a bowl first," she said.

"How much money do we have left?" Marco asked.

"Cash or bank account?"

"It doesn't matter."

Kiara took out her phone and swiped it a couple of times, while Dane pulled out a few crumpled one-dollar bills and two twenty-five-cent coins from his pocket.

"The total cash is—" Dane counted, "four dollars and seventy-five cents. There's one hundred and three dollars in the account, but this card was pre-authorized at the gas station this morning, and eighty dollars of it is currently unusable. It will take three to five days for the bank to unfreeze it."

"So we're investigating a mutton soup shop. It smells like this, but we probably can't buy a bowl for everyone?" Kiara put her phone back in her pocket.

"How about we join the queue too?" Marco said.

The three of them had already walked to the edge of the queuing area as they talked.

There were about fifteen or sixteen people in front of the food truck. The line stretched straight along the sidewalk. No one cut in line, no one pushed, and no one even spoke loudly.

The homeless people in the queue had different expressions, but were generally quiet; the troublemaker had probably already been kicked out.

Marco scanned the area.

His gaze swept over several black men wrapped in dirty blankets, a skinny man picking at the mud on the soles of his shoes with his fingernails, and then stopped at the back of the group, about three meters away from the tent area, where an old man was standing.

This old man is different from the others.

He was wearing an old camouflage military coat covered in stains, green canvas shoes, and several beer bottle caps pinned to his chest. He was holding a pencil stub he had picked up from somewhere and drawing something on a piece of cardboard.

Marco, who had worked as a criminal investigator for the NYPD for over a decade, could tell at a glance that the old man's eyes were neither as unfocused as those of someone suffering from drug overdose nor as cloudy as those of someone suffering from alcohol poisoning.

"That one." Marco gestured in a direction with his chin.

"Which one?" Kiara asked.

"Camouflage uniform, beer and medals."

"Are you sure? He doesn't seem quite right."

"It's precisely because he seems the most abnormal that, in places like this, the abnormal people often know the most."

The three approached from the side, bypassed the edge of the tent area, passed several homeless men squatting on the ground filling water bottles with tap water, and walked towards the old man in the camouflage overcoat.

Marco was in front, Chiara was in the middle, and Dane was half a step behind. This was their subconscious division of labor: one would start the conversation, one would take notes, and the other would pull someone away if something seemed wrong.

The old man had noticed them long ago.

Marco stopped a step away from the old man and forced a smile that said, "I'm a friendly passerby."

"Hey buddy, this is Marco, this is Chiara, and this is Dane. Excuse me, we'd like to ask about this stall."

The old man stopped using his pencil, slowly flipped the cardboard over, and then looked up.

He first looked Marco up and down, starting with Marco's leather shoes, then his belt buckle, and finally the stitching on the shoulders of his jacket.

Then he turned to Chiara, his gaze lingering for a second on the DSLR camera, and then for a second each on Chiara's outdoor boots and backpack zipper.

Finally, he looked at Dane.

The old man's gaze lingered briefly on Dane's work pants, old military boots, and the calluses on the back of his hands before he looked away.

Kiara felt a little uneasy under his gaze and subconsciously moved the camera closer to her chest.

Dane remained expressionless, putting both hands in his pockets.

"What units are you three from?"

Marco was taken aback.

"What unit? We're not soldiers, we're—we're local community volunteers who want to know more—"

"volunteer?"

The old man repeated the word, his lips twitching upwards.

"No, you're from the reconnaissance company."

"And you are in a very dangerous situation right now."

Why?

"Because your investigation methods are too unprofessional."

The old man drew a circle on his knee with his finger. "The three of you, carrying reconnaissance equipment, walked right into the enemy's supply line in broad daylight and randomly picked one of the outer personnel to start questioning."

He withdrew his finger and pointed to Marco's chest.

"If it were one of my intelligence officers, you would all be in the dark right now."

"However, the disguise was quite good; the tattered coat and low-budget transportation met the basic characteristics of infiltration reconnaissance."

"The problem is that you lacked some local cover. For example, you didn't bring bowls. At this supply station, everyone carries bowls."

He held up one finger and pointed to the homeless people at the front and back of the line.

Indeed, almost everyone was holding a ceramic bowl or an old plastic lunchbox.

Kiara looked down at her empty hands.

"We're not—we're not here to collect food," she said.

"Of course not." MacArthur nodded. "You're here to scout, and your commander certainly doesn't think much of you."

Marco opened his mouth.

"We—we weren't wearing military uniforms, you're just making wild guesses—"

The old man's gaze lingered on Marco's collar for a moment.

"You still have the holster strap mark."

Marco instinctively pulled his jacket up a little.

"I'm not a police officer, sir."

"I didn't say you were a police officer, because you aren't now."

Marco did not speak.

MacArthur then turned to Chiara.

"And the photographer next to you."

"The DSLR lanyard is severely worn, but the camera itself is clean, which means you use it a lot but can't afford to buy a new one."

"There is a hard callus on the tip of my right index finger. It's not a gun callus, it's a shutter callus."

"You used to be a war correspondent? Now you've been fired and directly recruited as a reconnaissance soldier on the battlefield?"

Kiara's mouth was agape as the lens cap slid off her fingers and bounced twice on the lanyard.

MacArthur looked at Dane one last time.

"Your Crown Victoria has probably had several owners. The engine makes a strange noise when idling, but you don't have the money to fix it because your pension was withheld by some bureaucratic agency."

Dane smacked his lips.

"Old man, how did you figure that out?"

"You're not the first veteran to be passed around by the Department of Veterans Affairs, and you won't be the last."

Marco took a deep breath and turned back to face the old man.

"Sir, we haven't introduced ourselves yet, could you please—"

"You don't need an introduction; I can already tell who you are, can't I?"

"Three former law enforcement officers or related professionals who were at the lowest point in their careers were hired by an employer who was unwilling to appear in person for a very low price to carry out a marginal investigation task without clear legal basis."

The old man glanced at Marco's face again.

"Your equipment is outdated, your budget is limited, and your morale is leaning towards being passive and unmotivated, but you're not going to give up on this mission entirely because you really need this money."

He paused.

"So, which command sent you to scout my position?"

Kiara turned to look at Marco, her lips moved but no sound came out, though her mouth shape was clear: What the hell is going on?

Marco wiped his face.

"Sir, we're here to investigate—no, we just want to ask a few questions about the operator of this mutton stall. Do you know who's in charge here?"

"I don't have the authority to tell you any information from command."

"What command post?" Kiara blurted out.

The old man didn't answer her directly, but instead pulled out a worn notebook wrapped in a plastic bag from the inside pocket of his military overcoat.

He turned to a blank page and picked up a pencil stub.

"What's your unit number?"

"No, we don't have a code name; we're just a private investigation company—"

"What is the company's name?"

"Our name is... uh, we didn't register any names, it's just the three of us."

17

"Freelance Mercenaries"

The old man scribbled a few lines on the notebook in a crooked manner.

"Which area do you live in? Don't tell me the address, just tell me which convenience store is closest to you."

Marco hesitated for a second.

"There's a 11-hour 7-Eleven at the intersection of Sixth Street."

"Sixth Street." MacArthur nodded. "Low rent, remote commute, and no large commercial facilities nearby."

Your financial situation does not support living in the city center.

"What is your current salary?"

Marco glanced at Dane, who was chewing his gum expressionlessly, making two smacking noises.

"Five hundred dollars," Marco said, "in three installments."

The old man raised his eyes and looked at Marco with the kind of look one gives a dead man.

"You three lives combined are only worth five hundred dollars?"

"Yes, that's it." Dane finally said something from the side.

Kiara's lips twitched.

The old man pointed his pencil at Marco: "You, a former police officer, were eliminated and became a mercenary. You have lost faith in your superiors' orders and are struggling."

He then pointed at Kiara: "You, a support staff member, possess valuable professional skills, but you're a follower and not a proper intelligence agent."

Finally, pointing to Dane: "You, the recalled veteran, still have decent execution skills but are demoralized and lack the courage to break away from the system."

"So what are your means of survival, besides these occasional low-budget investigation assignments?"

Kiara found herself answering honestly.

"I take pet portraits and occasionally do wedding photography. Dane repairs used cars and doesn't accept receipts. Marco—"

Marco occasionally takes on divorce investigations, leveraging his experience as a former police detective.

"Ghost jobs, cash transactions, tax evasion," MacArthur summarized. "You live off these basic necessities, in remote areas, and only get a little relief when you get a mission."

He paused.

"Have you ever wondered why all the missions you get are the kind that leave you drained down to the bone?"

"Because you are at the bottom of this system. There are too many layers between you and the highest-ranking commander, and each layer is taking from your budget, just like the country's relief center, where every bureaucrat is taking from the resources that should belong to you."

The three fell silent.

He put down the pencil and closed the notebook.

"I understand your situation."

"Wait, no, we're not here to register your information." Marco rubbed his temples. "We just want to know who owns this lamb stall. Can you just tell us directly?"

"cannot."

Why?

"Because you were sent by the opposing camp."

Kiara turned to Dane: "Is he serious?"

"It looks like it," Dane said.

Marco took a deep breath.

"Fine, you win. You say we're on opposing sides, and we don't deny that. But can I ask you a question now?"

Just one.

The old man put the notebook back in his pocket.

"ask."

"You're a homeless person, aren't you?"

"I am a general."

"Very well, General. You've guessed about 70-80% of our background, but can you tell us who you really are?"

The old man slowly moved closer, and upon closer inspection, it became clear that he was almost a head shorter than Marco, but their auras were completely different.

"General Douglas MacArthur".

"A five-star general, currently serving as a military advisor at the front lines. As for the specific strategic deployments, they are classified as frontline secrets and cannot be disclosed to the enemy reconnaissance squad."

Kiara covered her face with the camera.

"He said he was MacArthur," she said in a hushed voice.

"I heard you," Dane said.

Marco closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and then opened them.

"Good, good, General MacArthur, I now think you're either a madman or a genius."

"The two are not mutually exclusive," MacArthur said. "Like the three of you, you are both low-level laborers abandoned by the system and potential fighting forces with professional skills."

He took another step forward and put one hand on Marco's shoulder.

"Since you came directly to me, it means your investigative skills are good, but you chose the wrong employer. Those who siphon off your budget are not worth your loyalty."

He pulled his hand back, reached into his overcoat pocket, and took out a crumpled piece of paper.

"Leave your contact information."

Marco glanced at Chiara beside him, then at MacArthur.

Why not?

Marco took the paper and pen and wrote down his phone number, not knowing why he did it.

Kiara leaned close to his ear and said, "We're being tricked by a homeless man, and he just figured out all of our backgrounds more accurately than we did on our own resumes."

"Maybe he was just lucky?"

"Then why are you still writing?"

"Because he's right about everything." Marco handed the pen and paper back.

MacArthur took the business card, carefully read every word on it, and then stuffed it into the inside pocket of his camouflage coat.

"I will report to my superiors."

"You have a superior?"

"Everyone should have a superior."

Just as MacArthur stuffed the piece of paper into the inside pocket of his camouflage coat, a shadow fell upon him.

Ray walked around the food truck without making a sound. He stopped about half a meter behind Marco, dragged his left leg half a step, and then firmly planted his right leg before speaking.

"What are you guys doing?"

Marco turned around and instinctively took a step back.

The sense of oppression felt by Reiba up close was much greater than what was seen through the telescope.

Standing at 1.9 meters tall, his dark blue overalls revealed the still-muscular physique. His left hand hung down on his trouser seam, fingers outstretched and joined together, while his right palm was turned outwards slightly, ready to block or push at any moment.

His posture was exactly the same as the old man's, the only difference being that the old man's military overcoat had faded, while Lei was wearing work clothes.

Kiara also took half a step back, and the DSLR camera hit her chest with a dull thud.

Only Dane stood still, taking his hand out of his pocket, but not assuming a fighting stance.

"I asked you what you're doing."

Lei repeated it, raising his voice.

"It's nothing, we were just chatting, nothing happened—"

Lei interrupted him.

"Leave here. Reporters and investigators are not welcome here. If you want soup, line up; if not, leave."

"Wait a minute," Kiara held up her DSLR camera, "We are indeed hired to conduct an investigation, but we have no malicious intent—"

"Young lady," Lei looked down at her, "I said leave, not ask you to explain yourself."

Kiara shut her mouth.

Marco took a deep breath and raised his hands.

"Okay, okay, let's go, we'll go right now."

He had just turned around when he turned back and said to the old man, "General, let's talk again next time."

"If your command still assigns you missions," MacArthur said.

Under Lei's watchful eye, the three quickly walked back to the car.

Marco opened the car door, glanced back, and saw Ray still standing there staring at them.

The car door closed.

Kiara placed the camera on her lap, paused for two seconds, and then said, "So, not only can we not find out who actually started this business, but a mad general also managed to extract the true financial situation, professional background, and personal contact information of three people."

"We've found out." Dane started the engine.

"What did they find out?"

"Finding out that this job is worth 500 yuan is too little. We should have more valuable jobs to do, but not today."

""

The engine started, and the car slowly drove away from the roadside.

Ray stood by the tent, watching the dilapidated Crown Victoria disappear around the corner of 10th Street, before turning his gaze back to MacArthur.

Do you know those three people?

MacArthur tucked the pencil behind his ear and looked up.

"They are scouts."

"What?"

"Hostile forces are infiltrating our defenses."

He flipped over the cardboard he had been drawing on, and turned the diagram of the mosque on it towards Lei. "However, as it stands, their intelligence gathering capabilities are very limited, their equipment is dilapidated, and their morale is low. There's no need to mobilize defensive resources at the legion level to deal with them."

The two men stared at each other for about five seconds, and then MacArthur spoke again.

"Soldiers," MacArthur said.

Lei's right eye twitched.

This was the third time in the past few days that he had made eye contact with the old man.

The old man who called himself MacArthur was already there when Ray Fong handed over this new group of homeless people to him on the first day and asked him to keep records.

He didn't have a fixed tent location, nor did he queue at any fixed time. Sometimes he would appear next to the fire hydrant at the back of the queue, sometimes he would squat at the edge of the tent area and draw something on the ground, and sometimes he would just stand by the roadside, with his hands behind his back, watching the food trucks, the homeless, the streets, and the main roads where the police had set up checkpoints, without saying a word.

When Lei first registered, he thought Lei was a drug addict.

But later he found that although the old man spoke like a mental patient, he could always come back to his senses logically. So he gradually labeled the old man in his mind and decided that he could not be treated as an ordinary homeless person.

But that doesn't mean he can call himself a "soldier".

"I'm not a soldier," Ray said.

"I'm just here to work."

He raised his right hand and pointed towards his chest. "I'm no longer a soldier. I retired from the army and now I'm just an employee."

MacArthur fell silent.

He looked at Lei's face, then at Lei's slightly slouched left leg, and then his gaze moved down to the knee of Lei's work clothes, as if he were looking at the old injury through the fabric.

"You're not a soldier, you're a sergeant. You maintain ranks, drive away infiltrators, manage supply lines, and keep a tactical watch on every stranger who approaches this line."

"Your commander pays you, but you were already in this position before he even gave you the money."

Lei looked down at his hands, which were clenched into half fists with the base of his thumb pressed against the seam of his pants.

He let go of his hand.

"I don't like playing war games with people."

"Nobody's playing games, Ray."

The old man looked at his face again.

"Enlistment date".

"What?"

When did you enlist?

Lei frowned slightly, but answered anyway.

"In 2016, the 1st Infantry Division was stationed in Iraq for twenty months."

"Where is the injury?"

"IED. Roadside bomb. The Hummer's undercarriage exploded. His left leg below the knee was completely shattered, and three steel nails were driven in."

MacArthur put his hands behind his back and straightened his back again.

"Is it an explosive ordnance disposal unit or an infantry company?"

"infantry."

"Soldiers," MacArthur said again.

"I don't have military status," Ray said, his tone becoming increasingly agitated.

MacArthur stared at him for a few more seconds, then looked at the food truck in the distance.

The steam from the dining car window never stopped. Hassan brought out another stack of flatbreads from the side door of the temple and handed them to the orphan guarding the window.

The queue is still moving forward.

"The commander is keeping you here not because you're still a member of the military."

"I don't----"

"Why do you think your commander accepted you?"

"Because he saw that I could fight that night."

"wrong."

"He didn't choose you because you're a fighter. There are plenty of fighters out there. There's a former boxer on this street, and five gang thugs just released from the county jail. They can all fight. But your commander chose you."

"He chose a sick man who stood in front of a gun in a dark alley to protect a group of strangers. I remember a crazy refugee stabbed a child, and you were still protecting him."

"You weren't one of his soldiers back then; he was just someone passing through. He wasn't interested in your fighting ability—maybe a little, but the main reason was probably because you were standing in front of a gun."

Ray stared at him.

Were you there at the time?

"Isn't this normal? I'm inspecting the battle."

MacArthur put his arm around Ray's shoulder.

"What kind of person do you think he is? He's not like those guys who treat veterans like footballs, not like those guys who stamp your veterans' benefit forms and then call you to the next office. He doesn't treat you like expendable material."

"Ray, you're standing here because you wanted to be here."

Lei lowered his head, thought for a moment, and then raised it again.

"He provides meals and lodging, and pays a daily wage of one hundred."

"I don't think military pay is the key point."

"He saw me."

Ray didn't look at MacArthur when he said that.

He turned to the side, his gaze passing over the people in line and looking toward the abandoned laundromat, even though the laundromat was nowhere to be seen from there.

A few nights ago, the rain at the alley entrance hadn't completely dried yet.

He squatted there, a screwdriver clutched in his pocket, waiting as RayFong had instructed.

Then RayFong appeared.

The moment that man glanced at him in that dark alley, Lei felt that the man wasn't looking at a lowly, insignificant soldier; he was treating him as a living, breathing person standing right in front of him.

He thought about it for a while longer.

"He asked about my background, and I told him I used to be a soldier," he said calmly at the end.

"So, are you a soldier now or not?"

"I think that's also possible."

97

"Your rank is cheap, but the one you've got is a decent commander," MacArthur said.

Lei stood there for a few more seconds after hearing those words.

The line of homeless people continued to move forward, and the aroma of mutton soup in the food cart grew even stronger.

He turned his gaze away from the direction of the laundromat.

At this moment, Arthur seemed to remember something and spoke again.

"Oh right, remember to report to the commander for me. I have done as he asked and haven't mentioned Incheon, Bataan, or the Pacific War to anyone for three days. Those are things of the past, so it's better not to mention them."

Lei nodded, then turned and left quickly, as if fleeing something.

MacArthur remained standing there, seeing him off.

Lei weaved through the queue, circled around to the side of the food cart, and sat down on a plastic stool that creaked as it did so.

He placed his hands on his knees and looked at his slightly lame left leg.

"Soldier."

He repeated the word in a low voice, then rubbed his face with his hand.

His discharge certificate was still folded up in the motel where he was temporarily staying.

The letter from the Department of Veterans Affairs refusing to pay compensation is also there.

The prescription for opioid painkillers had long expired, and the cold sweats from withdrawal were still fresh in his memory, but he didn't resort to the cheap fentanyl from the roadside vendor.

Why would I take this so seriously?

He spoke to the air beside the plastic stool, "I was seriously explaining to a crazy old man whether I'm a soldier or not, and what I said about being a soldier—what could he possibly understand?"

He shook his head, picked up the half-finished bottle of mineral water from beside his feet, unscrewed the cap, and took a sip.

MacArthur remained standing, looking in the direction Ray had sat down, then pulled his overcoat collar tighter and went back to his tent.

It was a little after 4 p.m. on the first floor of the Psychedelic Cat nightclub.

The steel pipes in the dance floor hadn't been removed yet. The scaffolder—wearing a reflective vest—was squatting next to the steel pipes, tightening the base screws with a wrench. After tightening them twice, he suddenly stopped, looked up, and glanced at the chrome-plated steel pipe that was welded from the floor to the ceiling.

After the man in the hoodie got into a fight with the steel pipe, he also bumped into it while drunk a few days ago. His forehead was swollen for three days before it went down, and he still has a band-aid on his forehead.

"My personal feud with this pipe isn't over yet," he said, pointing at the steel pipe.

"Stop talking to the pipe." The short, fat black man sat behind the bar, a new register spread out in front of him, and a ballpoint pen in his hand.

The register already has more than a dozen items listed: plasterboard, wooden framing, electrical wires, PVC water pipes, cement, and used toilets.

Each item was marked with its quantity and approximate monetary value. The short, stout Black man had beautiful, cursive handwriting, a skill he honed from writing contracts when he was a used car seller.

"Who the hell moved these drywall panels here?"

The screwdriver guy's voice boomed from the northwest corner of the dance floor on the first floor. He was squatting in front of a pile of plasterboards leaning against the wall, pointing at the edge of one of them.

"This corner is cracked! I've told you so many times, you can't drag the planks at an angle when moving them, you have to put wooden blocks underneath them!"

"I moved it."

Cole poked his head out from the second-floor stairwell, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. "If you have any complaints, you can come up here and tell me in person."

"I'm fucking talking to you!"

"Weren't you just talking to a wall?"

The screwdriver-wielding man leaned the plasterboard against the wall, tilted his head back, and yelled at the second floor, "I'm having this wall bear witness before I fucking tell you! Did those guys in the boxing ring beat your brain into a pulp?"

In front of the bar, Elton was carrying a whole bundle of wooden keel as he came in through the back door.

One end of the wooden frame hit the door frame, causing a small piece of plaster to come off.

"Watch out!" Louis shouted from outside the back door. "That's the door frame, not for you to bump into!"

"The door frame is too narrow," Elton said in a muffled voice.

"The doorway isn't narrow; it's just that the thing you're carrying is too long! Shouldn't you have come in at an angle? You could even bring the frame in horizontally; you shouldn't have come in vertically, or you'd bump into the doorway!"

Elton placed the wooden frame in the center of the dance floor, dusted off his hands, and looked at Louis.

Why didn't you say to come in at an angle when you were outside?

"I thought you knew to come in at an angle!"

"I don't know. I'm a demolition worker, I don't know how to carry things inside."

"Carrying things is a basic life skill, not even a skill for breaking down walls. How old are you this year?"

Thirty-seven.

"Thirty-seven years, and you still haven't learned how to carry long things in at an angle?"

"I didn't learn it because we used to bring things in by dismantling doors."

Louis opened his mouth, but Elton had already turned around and continued unloading.

Just then, there was another bang.

All eyes turned to the back door, where Jarvis stood with his hat on the floor.

Jarvis kicked an overturned metal trash can; he didn't fall, but his hat flew off.

Louis turned his head instantly: "What the hell is wrong now?"

"6

Jarvis picked up his hat and dusted it off. "The ground was covered in cement you guys were unloading. How was I supposed to know there was a bucket here? Damn it. This bucket was about three meters away from me before. Who just kicked it over?"

No one responded at the other end of the dance floor.

A few seconds later, a head popped out from the second-floor stairwell; it was a man in a hoodie holding a broom.

He looked down to make sure no one was hurt, then pulled his head back in.

Old Welder was squatting at the edge of the dance floor, holding a half-pencil he had borrowed from the Trash Can Philosopher, and drawing a rough construction plan on the floor.

The first floor depicts a canteen area, a tool room, and a supplies storage area, while the second floor depicts a bunch of beds, partitions, and a public washroom area.

The drawing is crooked, but the proportions are correct.

"The canteen's stoves were originally intended to be connected to the gas pipes in the back kitchen."

The old welder tapped the blueprint with a pencil. "But the gas to this shop has been cut off. It's not just the valve that's closed; the entire pipeline has been sealed off by the municipal authorities. The outer section of the iron pipe is rusted. This pipe is unusable."

"So?" The man in the reflective vest stood up from beside the steel pipe.

"So, the issue isn't the location of the stove."

"Jarvis's cement mixer will be set up this afternoon, Elton is already dismantling the unnecessary partitions on the second floor, and Louis will start patching the cracks in the east wall on the first floor this afternoon."

The old welder simply placed his pencil on the drawing paper.

"But we can't cook right now. I've had all the supplies brought in. We have a whole bag of flour, two cans of cooking oil, a box of potatoes, half a lamb, and some leftover flatbread that came from the mosque this morning. That should be enough for about two meals."

"But that guy."

He pointed to the dumpster philosopher.

"He just told me that without fire, all these things are just for show."

All eyes turned to a corner next to the bar.

The dumpster philosopher is sitting cross-legged on an overturned beer crate, with a wok, a cleaver, and a few potatoes in front of him.

His expression was calm, and he seemed to have completely let go of the past.

"I am the cook."

The dumpster philosopher said, "My eyes never left the potatoes. I grew up in a dumpster, so my demands on life are very low."

He held up a potato.

"I can roast potatoes in a trash can with a lighter, I can boil rainwater in a found aluminum can, and I even once fried an egg on a car hood."

"But the boss dug me out of the dumpster, put me here, and told me to cook here."

"Then I discovered..."

He put the potato back on the ground.

"There's no gas. There's no electricity. There's not even a single match to light it."

He raised his eyes and looked at everyone.

"You want me to cook? How am I supposed to cook? Stare at the potatoes until they're cooked through? I don't have laser eyes."

Old Welder tucked a pencil behind his ear. "Um, wait a minute, let's confirm something first. Where's your lighter?"

"My lighter? Didn't you guys say you were going to open a community? A community is a legitimate place, and you can't use a lighter to cook in a legitimate setting!"

"Isn't a lighter fire?"

"A lighter is fire, but it's not suitable for cooking. The heat is insufficient, it's inconvenient to adjust, and you have to press it five hundred times to cook a meal. Last time, my thumb was practically cooked from pressing it so many times. What can you possibly accomplish with that?"

"Why didn't you say so sooner?"

Louis turned to look at the cook. "We've been carrying cement and plasterboard all morning, we're exhausted. And what are you going to feed the people cleaning upstairs when they get hungry?"

"I'm thinking," said the dumpster philosopher.

"What are you thinking about?"

"I'm pondering the essence of human civilization. How did our ancestors eat before they invented fire-making by friction?"

"If we could go back to that primitive state, perhaps we could eat potatoes raw."

"Potatoes shouldn't be eaten raw," Old Han said.

"Yes, that's why I'm thinking about why potatoes shouldn't be eaten raw."

"Because of starch."

"Starch is a cornerstone of human civilization, so why can't it be eaten raw?"

"Because it needs to be gelatinized."

"Then why does starch need to be gelatinized in order to be digested?"

"I'm answering your question, not giving you a food engineering lesson. I don't do that, and I can't control your broken stove, so can you please stop asking me these ridiculous questions?" Old Welder's brow twitched.

"So it's not that I gave up cooking," the dumpster philosopher finally looked up from the potatoes. "It's that civilization gave up on us."

"What did you say? What bullshit civilization?"

Elton came over from the side, kicked an empty paint bucket into the corner, and then pointed at the cook.

"Stop spouting nonsense, you just want to slack off."

"I wasn't slacking off; I was thinking."

"Thinking can't fill your stomach."

"Thinking is the ladder of human progress."

"The price of your progress is my stomach growling. I only ate two pancakes for lunch." Elton patted his belly.

"I didn't make the pancakes."

"But you're in charge of cooking!"

"I didn't say I wouldn't do it; I'm just waiting for you to provide the terms."

"Conditions? We're here to demolish walls, not to connect your gas!"

Old Han stood up, about to say something, when the short, fat Black man put down his pen from behind the bar.

"Say something."

"Shut up." Elton and the cook turned their heads almost simultaneously.

"Let me say something."

The short, stout Black man pushed the register forward two pages, pointing to the entries he had written down yesterday.

"The supplies we received were mainly building materials: plasterboard, screws, cement, electric drills, saw blades, wires, and PVC."

Tube."

He paused.

"The entire supplies list includes several rolls of electrical wire, as well as an induction cooker, but no gas cylinders are listed."

He closed the register.

"The core of our problem right now is that we have a lot of food, a cook, a kitchen, but no heat source."

The old welder slowly nodded. "So we need to find a heat source."

"Find a heat source."

Elton repeated it, fidgeting with his fingers on the side of his hand.

"I'm going to the gas station on Fourth Avenue to get a gas cylinder." He stood up.

"No way. That gas station is next to the garbage dump. Last time Jarvis came from there, a drug addict mistook him for a CIA agent and stopped him for half an hour." Louis waved his hand.

"Besides, our boss instructed us not to go out and cause trouble. It's not that we're afraid of trouble, but the situation outside hasn't calmed down yet. Are we supposed to go out and invite trouble?"

"Then let Big T go and dismantle some more building materials from the unfinished building—" the dumpster philosopher said.

"What are we going to do after we move back? Burn wood?" the short, fat Black man asked.

"Yes, burn the furniture."

Old Han frowned. "So, are you planning to burn it indoors or outdoors? If we set fire to large pieces of furniture outside, it'll produce smoke, thick smoke that you can see with the naked eye. Do you believe that the fire department will call the boss soon—oh no, they'll send a fire truck right over."

"And you can't burn things indoors either," the old welder added. "The ventilation system in this house has been broken for a long time. If you burn wood for cooking, there's no ventilation downstairs, and the whole place is filled with smoke. Everyone on the second floor will be suffocated by the smoke. In this kind of enclosed space, the smoke can't dissipate, and everyone will pass out within an hour. Haven't you heard of that?"

"What should we do then?"

"We need electricity."

Everyone present fell silent for a few seconds.

"Electricity?" Elton looked around. "Do you think this place has electricity? Even the switches on the wall are fake; the power's been off for a long time."

The old welder didn't respond.

He recalled a detail.

Last night, when he was smoking outside the store, there was a municipal street lamp at the exit of the back alley of Psychedelic Cat that was lit.

"Wait a minute." The old welder raised a hand, signaling everyone to be quiet, then looked at Louis. "How many years have you been a bricklayer?"

"Eighteen years."

"Then you must have seen the burial depth of municipal street light cables, right?"

Louis paused for a moment, then his head almost involuntarily turned towards the direction of the psychedelic cat's door.

The sun was still shining outside, but the streetlights weren't on.

Everyone turned their heads as he did.

A second later, Elton picked up a crowbar from the ground.

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