"Meat?"
Logan Lee blinked in surprise and looked toward June, asking,
> "Didn't the family butcher the pig this year?"
He distinctly remembered that his brother's household had always raised one.
Even though land reform hadn't yet reached their commune, families were still allowed to keep a few animals—just not many.
George and Mary were hardworking people. In a few years, after the policy of "household responsibility" took effect, George would even become the commune's official pig breeder, with a plot of land assigned just for feed.
Every winter before the heavy snows came, each household slaughtered its pig. The meat would then be frozen in the snowbanks, enough to last until the spring thaw.
They weren't wealthy, but still—Logan thought—they should have eaten pork at least occasionally.
June stayed silent, staring down at the last melting scraps of rice paper in her palm.
It was James who spoke up first, his small voice breaking the silence.
> "Uncle, the pig… it was cursed. We buried it."
"Cursed pig?" Logan froze for a moment—and then it hit him.
Of course. He remembered now.
In his previous life, that same winter, the family had slaughtered their pig only to find the meat crawling with rice-grain-sized parasites—larvae of tapeworms, embedded everywhere.
They couldn't eat it. So they buried it.
And that winter, they had gone nearly three months without tasting meat.
When Logan looked back up, he caught the flicker of guilt on June's face.
He understood instantly.
June, after school, always went to the fields to cut pig grass. She would haul it back on her shoulders, chop it fine, and mix it with bran to cook for the pig.
She must have blamed herself—thinking she had somehow caused it.
Logan sighed softly.
> "June, don't blame yourself. There are lots of reasons that could've happened. Sure, food and water are one cause, but sometimes it's just luck—like a bird dropping in the pen, or some insect that carries parasites. It's no one's fault."
June looked up, her voice small but trembling.
> "Really, Uncle? You mean it's not because of the feed?"
Her eyes glistened faintly in the dim light, and Logan's heart tightened. His niece carried far too much weight for a child her age.
> "Of course it's true. Your uncle worked in the food factory in Wucheng, remember? I learned that stuff straight from the experts there."
> "Then… it's really not because of the grass I cut?" she asked again, almost whispering.
> "No. Flies can carry eggs and bacteria too. You can never tell where it comes from," Logan said gently. Then, smiling, he added,
"And who says there's no meat? We've still got fish! Tomorrow, I'll break the ice at the river and catch some. I promise we'll have plenty for the New Year feast."
> "But I want meat today," James murmured quietly.
June turned on him at once, her voice sharp.
> "Stop it! You'll live without meat. It's late—go get ready for bed!"
The room was growing darker. In those days, there was still no electricity in the village. At night, people lit kerosene lamps.
The Lee family owned a good one—a fancy model with a thin glass shade. When Logan came home, George had even brought him another lamp from the main house so his little brother could have light in the east room.
Logan glanced out the window, then turned to the children with a half-smile.
> "How about this—wait a bit, and I'll catch a few sparrows for us to roast."
James's eyes lit up.
> "Really? Uncle, you can really catch them?"
> "Sure can," Logan said, grinning. "But first—wipe your nose, will you? Look at your sleeve—it's shining!"
James laughed sheepishly, scrubbing his nose again with the same sleeve.
> "It's fine! When are we catching them?"
> "Right now. Wait here."
> "I wanna come!" James said eagerly.
> "No, it's freezing outside," Logan warned.
> "I'm not scared of cold! I played outside all day, even spinning tops with the boys!"
Spinning tops—called "beating the ox" in the local dialect—was every village kid's winter pastime.
The fancier ones were made from truck lug nuts hammered around a steel marble; the smaller ones were made from broken spark plugs, fired upside-down with a tiny steel ball embedded inside.
The whips they used to spin them were braided from tractor belts or nylon cords, depending on what they could find.
Aside from sliding on ice or mock "chicken fights," it was one of the only games children had in those endless winters.
> "Fine," Logan said finally. "But put on a hat."
> "Uncle, can I come too?" June asked softly.
He hesitated, then nodded.
> "Alright. But dress warmly."
He reached into his bag and pulled out his proudest possession—his flashlight. It was his only electrical appliance, bought with nearly half a month's wages.
Then he slipped on his military-style fur hat—the kind that had cost him dearly but made him look like a city man.
When the two children came out bundled in thick coats, their eyes widened the moment they saw him under the beam of the flashlight.
He looked taller, sharper, almost heroic—the way a real grown-up should look.
Even his cotton-lined rubber boots gleamed faintly, far sturdier than their worn cloth shoes. Most of his old factory wages had gone into these few good things.
> "June," Logan asked, "where's the net?"
> "In the shed, east of the house," she said, pointing.
He led them there, the flashlight cutting through the dark like a sword. Inside the straw shed, he found the catching net—a simple wire frame with mesh attached, used for scooping hay or sometimes fish.
By now, the sky had gone completely black. Perfect timing.
Sparrows—called "old birds" around here—nested in the haystacks during winter. They didn't build proper nests, just burrowed deep into the dry grass to keep warm.
Back then, there were no animal protection laws. And winter sparrows were plump, feeding only on grain and seeds. People saw them as a food source, small but edible.
In summer, though, when they fed on worms, they were left alone.
> "Uncle, how will you catch them? You can't see anything," James whispered, his oversized hat nearly covering his eyes.
He wiped his nose again, leaving another glossy streak on his sleeve.
June said nothing but watched closely. For the first time, her distrust had softened into curiosity.
> "Follow me," Logan said quietly. He pointed to the haystack.
"They're hiding in there. All we need to do is shine the light, and when their eyes freeze up, I'll cover them with the net. You two just be ready."
He started scanning the haystack with the flashlight beam, moving slowly.
The dry grass glowed gold under the light, and the air smelled faintly of straw and frost.
> "See anything yet?" James whispered impatiently.
> "Shh!" June hissed, smacking his arm lightly. "Don't talk! Uncle's looking."
Logan chuckled quietly to himself. It had been years since he'd done this—but his eyesight was sharp again, clearer than it had ever been in his past life.
Then he saw them—two tiny glints, reflecting back from the beam. Eyes.
He grinned.
> "Got you."
> "June," he whispered, "hold the light right where I'm pointing. Don't move."
> "Here?" she asked, adjusting slightly.
> "That's it. Don't speak."
Logan crept forward on soft steps, raising the net carefully. He crouched low—one step, two—and then, in a swift motion, thrust upward.
Whoosh!
A blur of wings. The net shook violently.
> "I got it!" Logan called softly.
> "You caught one!" James shouted, clapping his hands in excitement.
In the net, a small sparrow fluttered helplessly, its feathers dusted with snow.
For the first time in a long while, the cold, hungry little house filled with laughter.
(End of Chapter 3)
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