The family shared ten roasted sparrows that night.
George and Mary each had one, Logan ate two, and the remaining six went to the children—June and James—three apiece.
There wasn't much meat on a sparrow—just a few mouthfuls from the thighs and breast—but the children devoured them as if they hadn't eaten in days. They sucked every bone clean, gnawed until nothing was left, and even the small bones were chewed and swallowed without hesitation.
When they finished, they licked their fingers spotless.
Watching them, Logan felt a sharp ache in his chest. These kids really haven't had meat in so long…
He thought back to his days as an apprentice at the Wucheng No.81 Food Factory. Back then, he'd never gone hungry. Every payday, after buying clothes, he'd go straight to the state-run deli for a bag of stewed offal—pork hearts, tripe, chicken gizzards—his little indulgence.
Not once had he thought of his brother's children.
He shook his head bitterly. I really wasn't much of a man back then.
Now, seeing the way the kids savored every bite, Logan's guilt deepened.
Three sparrows each—barely enough to fill their stomachs.
He had planned to rest for the night, but as the room quieted and the smell of roasted meat faded, a new thought stirred.
Why stop here?
He had a flashlight. The night was young. If he was lucky, he might find something even better to eat.
He didn't tell anyone. After sending the children off to bed, he tidied up, slipped into his still-damp rubber boots, pulled on his cotton coat, and adjusted his fur hat. Then, grabbing his flashlight, his net, and an empty urea sack, he stepped quietly out into the freezing dark.
---
In the west room, Mary glanced toward the children's bed, where both were already fast asleep. She lowered her voice.
> "Logan's changed, hasn't he? He never used to be this close to June and James."
George took a slow drag from his rolled tobacco, exhaling through his nose.
> "He's their uncle. I raised him. It's only right he takes care of his brother's kids now."
> "You're right," Mary said softly. "He's grown up, I think. Even after being fired, he's more thoughtful. Guess the money we spent on him wasn't wasted after all."
> "If he's learning sense, that's all I ever wanted."
George smiled faintly. He knew what kind of man his brother used to be—lazy, proud, careless. But he'd never had the heart to scold him too harshly.
If hard times had finally taught Logan some humility, maybe it was worth it.
> "I heard him leave just now," Mary murmured while stitching shoe soles. "Wonder where he's gone?"
> "Leave him be," George replied calmly. "He's old enough to know what he's doing. There's nothing much he can get up to in this cold. Probably just visiting someone."
---
Logan headed east.
Beyond the village lay open wilderness. A kilometer further were the reclaimed farmlands—flat stretches dotted with mounds of frozen earth left from plowing. After the harvest, leftover stalks and weeds gathered around those mounds.
It was the perfect place for Gua Gua Chickens.
These birds—named for their low, croaking calls—were a kind of wild grouse. Fat, slow, and not too bright, they were one of the few edible birds that stayed through the Northern Frontier winter.
Back then, most villagers didn't know where to find them—or couldn't hunt them even if they did.
Food shortages had left everyone malnourished. Many adults suffered from night blindness, and few households owned flashlights.
But Logan had both good eyesight and equipment.
He trudged through the knee-deep snow, his breath steaming in the moonlight. The world was silent, except for the crunch of his boots.
He didn't bother to walk quietly. The Gua Gua Chicken was, frankly, stupid.
He remembered the story of how this "habitat" had first been discovered—by an old shepherd who'd once come back from grazing at dusk. Too tired to see clearly, the man had sat down on what he thought was a pile of rocks.
The "rocks" had scattered in all directions, flapping their wings.
Ever since then, people knew—these birds preferred to huddle on snow-covered ground and rarely flew unless startled. Once they settled somewhere warm, they stayed put to conserve energy.
Logan smiled at the memory.
If he found them, it'd be a feast. If not—well, there wasn't much else to do on a winter night anyway. No television. No radio. No phone. No one to talk to.
Might as well go hunting.
The spot he had in mind was about a kilometer east of the commune. Even walking fast, it took him half an hour to get there through the thick snow.
By the time he arrived, sweat had soaked through his cotton coat. But the moment he stopped, the freezing air sliced through him, chilling that sweat into ice.
Minus thirty degrees.
The kind of cold that bit bone and burned skin.
Logan turned on the flashlight, scanning the mounds of snow. He couldn't stay long—his body needed warmth and food to keep functioning.
A few uneven shapes stood out ahead—snow-covered dirt piles.
He frowned.
Too much snow. The mounds are buried. If they're buried, the birds won't nest there.
He moved forward, checking each one carefully.
Then he saw it—scratch marks in the snow, where something had clawed away the top layer, exposing dry grass and stalks underneath.
His pulse quickened. That's it.
He raised the beam, and there—half-hidden in the snow—were several grayish shapes, motionless against the ground.
Gua Gua Chickens.
At least a dozen.
Some had their eyes closed, half asleep; others blinked slowly at the faint light, alert but reluctant to move.
Logan shut off the flashlight. The world went black.
He closed his eyes, letting his vision adjust to the dark. A minute passed. Then another.
When he opened them again, he could faintly make out the lumps ahead—barely visible silhouettes against the snow.
He crept closer. One careful step at a time.
At less than a meter away, he stopped, raised the net, and lowered it—swiftly but silently.
The bird didn't even react. One quick motion, and it was caught.
It flapped once, weakly, before he grabbed it by the wings and slipped it into the urea sack.
He felt its weight in his hands—heavy. Nearly half a kilogram.
Ten sparrows' worth of meat in one catch.
He grinned.
Nearby, two more shifted nervously but stayed where they were—unwilling to leave their warm spots in the snow.
Logan crouched low and trapped them both in quick succession.
One startled bird flew off with a muffled flutter, and the rest finally began to stir.
Logan didn't hesitate—he swung his net again and again, moving fast before they could all take flight.
Two more went into the sack. Then the rest exploded into the air, scattering into the night sky.
Five birds in total.
He stood there breathing hard, watching them vanish into the distance, the echo of their wings fading into silence.
Chasing them further wasn't worth it. The snow was too deep, and his legs were heavy with exhaustion.
Sweat soaked his back; the moment he stopped, the cold turned it icy again. His body shivered violently.
Need to get home… soak my feet, or I'll catch a fever for sure.
But as he hefted the sack of warm, heavy birds, a proud smile crossed his face.
Five Gua Gua Chickens.
To him, it felt like a victory.
Tomorrow, there would be meat again—real meat.
(End of Chapter 5)