Chapter 8: On a Whim

The next morning Wen Mo woke to find the rain that had fallen for days had finally stopped.
The sky cleared. When the nurse made rounds she opened the window for air. The damp, green smell after rain reached him at once. He breathed in deep, sat up in bed, and turned toward the window.
“The rain stopped,” he said to Pei Zeyang.
“Yeah. Just stopped this morning.” Pei Zeyang came out of the bathroom and answered.
He had watched Wen Mo all night, only dozing at dawn. Hearing Wen Mo wake, he opened his eyes and was alert at once. Young, fit, able to pull an all-nighter—cold water on his face and he looked fine, as if he hadn’t stayed up at all.
“Has his fever broken?” Pei Zeyang asked the nurse.
“It has. Temperature’s normal.” Right on time, the nurse removed the thermometer and told them, “Observe a few more hours. When the doctor checks and confirms nothing else, you can discharge.”
“Wonderful!” Wen Mo was delighted.
Home soon!
Maybe because he had spent so long in a hospital earlier in the year, he was sick of disinfectant and eager to leave.
Pei Zeyang thought he was like a kid.
…Kind of cute.
At ten thirty the doctor came. After a careful exam and confirming Wen Mo had no other complaints, he wrote prescriptions, gave a few instructions, and processed discharge.
Pei Zeyang’s long-suffering buddy Yuan Chen came to pick them up.
It was a fine weekend. Yuan Chen had planned to sleep till noon—then one call from Pei Zeyang and he was the driver, resigned.
From afar he spotted the blazing blond hair and waved.
On the way he had wondered why Pei Zeyang was in the hospital again—thought maybe he had hurt his leg again, sighed that the young master never stayed still. Up close he saw Wen Mo beside him—thin figure, standing quietly, fingers gripping Pei Zeyang’s clothes.
The size difference was obvious side by side. Wen Mo looked like Pei Zeyang’s little accessory.
Yuan Chen caught on fast. “What happened to the little neighbor?”
“Fever. Passed out last night.” Pei Zeyang hated the nickname, impatient. “Not ‘little neighbor.’ He has a name—Wen Mo.”
Yuan Chen: “…”
Triggered already.
“Right, I’m Wen Mo.” Compared to Pei Zeyang, Wen Mo was friendly and polite. He greeted Yuan Chen. “Hello.”
“Hi, hi. I’m Yuan Chen. We met yesterday—remember?” Yuan Chen was about to say he was the one who moved in with Pei Zeyang yesterday.
But Wen Mo spoke first.
“I remember. I recognize your voice.” Wen Mo smiled, lips curving slightly. “185.”
He paused, hesitant. “Point seven?”
Yuan Chen: “?”
Huh?
Hahaha.
Even the decimal.
He had forgotten he said point seven.
Yuan Chen laughed too—Wen Mo was interesting. “Yeah, that’s me. 185.7. Great memory.”
The moment he finished, Pei Zeyang’s death glare hit him—clear warning: stop flirting in front of Wen Mo, no sweet talk, no nonsense.
He knew Yuan Chen’s height bit yesterday had been shady. Now it had left a deep impression?
Point seven.
Wen Mo didn’t remember his 190.6.
Pei Zeyang’s face was dark, unhappy, hostility plain in his eyes. Silently, four words:
Stay. Away.
Yuan Chen: “…”
He wasn’t a plague. Overprotective much.
Fine. Fake smile.
Yuan Chen didn’t argue with Pei Zeyang. He put on a smile Wen Mo couldn’t see, cleared his throat tactically. “Let’s go. Get in—I’ll drive you two home.”
“Thank you.” Wen Mo thanked Yuan Chen, held Pei Zeyang’s hand, and got in the back with him.
Yesterday’s rush to the hospital—Wen Mo hadn’t brought his white cane. He could only hold Pei Zeyang tight and avoid his hurt leg.
Pei Zeyang wasn’t walking smoothly either. Rain for days—the ground wet, puddles everywhere. Wen Mo couldn’t see and clutched his sleeve; Pei Zeyang on crutches had to watch every step.
If he fell, fine—don’t take Wen Mo down with him.
Kid just discharged—don’t send him back in with another fall.
They looked exhausted walking like that. Yuan Chen watched their backs and shook his head silently. Pei Zeyang was asking for it.
If Pei Zeyang would let go and let Yuan Chen guide Wen Mo, he wouldn’t suffer so much.
Pei Zeyang wouldn’t.
He didn’t even seem tired—almost enjoying it.
“…”
Suffering for fun. Lunatic.
—
Yuan Chen drove the two “disabled” people home—this time specially allowed upstairs.
No choice—neither Pei Zeyang nor Wen Mo was convenient. Yuan Chen had to help.
Yuan Chen rolled his eyes to heaven, annoyed but still tolerating Pei Zeyang for now.
Because Pei Zeyang had really saved his life once—pulled him out of a lake when they were kids. That debt was why Yuan Chen put up with him.
Fifth floor. Wen Mo heard they were home and couldn’t wait—fingerprint unlock, first thing find his white cane.
Familiar space plus the cane—security returned. He felt his way to the bedroom, found his phone on the nightstand, came out with cane in hand.
Yuan Chen and Pei Zeyang were still by the elevator talking. Yuan Chen saw Wen Mo come out and waved goodbye. “Well, Wen Mo, I’m off.”
“So soon.” Wen Mo paused. “Won’t you come in for tea?”
“I just went to get my cane. Come in and sit.”
“No, no.” Yuan Chen waved frantically.
He wouldn’t dare sit in Wen Mo’s place—tea? Did he want to die.
Yuan Chen laughed dryly. “Skip the tea. Treat someone else. I’ve got things to do—see you. Next time.”
“Okay.” Wen Mo didn’t insist when he said he was busy. He waved goodbye. “Thanks again today. I’ll treat you to tea when there’s a chance.”
“Sure.” Yuan Chen agreed under the pressure of Pei Zeyang’s stare.
The elevator doors closed.
After Yuan Chen left, Wen Mo turned toward Pei Zeyang. His finger was on the phone screen—
“Why’s your phone making that noise?” Fast screen-reader speech—jabbering, strange. Pei Zeyang thought the phone was broken.
Wen Mo explained: “Blind mode. It’s a bit fast—you wouldn’t catch it easily.”
Pei Zeyang: “Oh.”
Got it.
Not necessarily that he couldn’t catch it—go home, listen a few times, he would.
Pei Zeyang didn’t like Wen Mo saying he wouldn’t understand.
Didn’t understand? He would.
“Mm…” Wen Mo went on. “How much was the hospital bill? I’ll transfer you.”
He had been pulling up his WeChat QR to pay Pei Zeyang back.
In the hospital he had no phone—Pei Zeyang paid. Second thing home: pay him back.
Pei Zeyang didn’t want the money.
A small favor—he didn’t want to settle accounts with Wen Mo.
“No rush.” Pei Zeyang dodged that. “What are you having for lunch?”
“…Probably congee.”
Nearly noon. Wen Mo thought a moment: “See what’s in the fridge—stir-fry a couple simple dishes.”
Fever was down but the cold wasn’t gone. The doctor gave plenty of medicine and said eat light, no spice—congee and plain vegetables, simple meal.
“There’s food in the fridge?” Pei Zeyang asked.
“Yeah.” Wen Mo said. “Day before yesterday someone from the community visited and bought a week of groceries. Usually the volunteer buys for me—from next week I’m going myself.”
“I know the way to the supermarket.”
“Impressive.” Pei Zeyang asked, “What’s in there now?”
Wen Mo hmm’d.
That stumped him.
He wasn’t sure exactly—only felt around when cooking, ate whatever he found, like a blind box. One of the small pleasures in his lonely life.
So he had never tracked what He Yi bought.
Unable to answer, the honest kid invited Pei Zeyang in to look himself.
Pei Zeyang didn’t stand on ceremony—as if he had been waiting for the invite—and followed right in.
Dining area left of the entry; fridge there. Pei Zeyang opened it.
Fridge: vegetables, potato, sweet potato, carrot, bell pepper, cucumber, tomato, eggs, jars of pickles and chili sauce and the like.
Freezer: fish, shrimp, meat, lots of frozen ready meals. Plenty, almost lavish.
Pei Zeyang listed them. Wen Mo: “Sweet potato?”
Pei Zeyang: “Yeah. Why?”
“That’s probably from Sister He Yi’s mom.” Wen Mo said. “Last week she called—her mom sent a box of homegrown sweet potatoes, wanted to give me some. I said no need. Guess she brought some anyway.”
The words left Wen Mo blank a long moment. He stood there dazed. Ten-plus seconds later he answered: “Watch TV, play on my phone? Sometimes read.”
“Then do that now.” Pei Zeyang took his wrist without discussion and pulled him from the kitchen. “TV, phone, or book—which?”
“…” Wen Mo thought seriously another half minute.
“TV?”
No braille books at home now—he used to borrow from the blind reading room, but that was too far for now.
“Okay.” Pei Zeyang turned on the TV. “What do you want?”
“Is there Animal Planet?” Wen Mo asked.
Pei Zeyang found the channel.
Wen Mo sat on the sofa, proper and quiet, leaning on the armrest, cane at his side, listening to “As spring returns, life renews…” from the screen.
…
Wen Mo settled, Pei Zeyang could finally cook.
Back in the kitchen he took stock: saury, carrot, sweet potato, rice, garlic.
He washed vegetables, peeled sweet potato and carrot clumsily—and suddenly wanted to know what Wen Mo was doing, whether he was watching TV like a good kid.
A few minutes apart and he worried. He finished the carrot half-distracted, still couldn’t help turning to look at the living room—
No one on the sofa.
Wen Mo who had been sitting there was gone. Empty living room.
Pei Zeyang froze a second, then went to find him.
“Wen Mo!” he called.
“Huh?”
Voice from the balcony.
Wen Mo sounded blank, turning back. “What—”
“Why are you on the balcony?” Pei Zeyang hurried over. Wen Mo held clothes, putting them on hangers.
“Hanging laundry.” Wen Mo said. “I remembered clothes still in the washer—so I… uh?”
Before he finished, his hands went light—Pei Zeyang snatched the clothes.
“I’ll hang them. Next time tell me if you need something.”
Wen Mo: “…”
Fine.
After the laundry Pei Zeyang asked: “Anything else you forgot?”
Wen Mo thought.
Wen Mo shook his head. “No. I’ll watch TV…”
Pei Zeyang: “Okay.”
Wen Mo went back to the sofa, sat straight, hands on his knees, obedient as a kindergarten kid.
Pei Zeyang returned to the kitchen.
This time he rinsed the rice and glanced back at the living room.
Wen Mo wasn’t running off—sitting properly, watching TV, waiting for food.
Pei Zeyang finally relaxed.
What was he doing next?
Cook congee.
Right—congee first.
Congee needs water.
Pei Zeyang was ready to show what he could do when a fatal question hit him.
How much water for congee?
Wait. Not only congee.
His hands stopped. His face froze.
Pei Zeyang remembered something important he had forgotten.
He couldn’t cook at all.
“…”