Early on the morning on the fifteenth day of the seventh month, Wumei and Zhang Ping left Stonybend Village.

Yesterday’s tense clouds had transformed into rain. Now, the sky was extraordinarily blue, the sunlight extraordinarily dazzling, but the breeze was cool.

Commander Yu insisted on giving them money and provisions for the road, and had his soldiers take them part of the way in a carriage.

Many villagers came to see them off, and there was also Old Shi’s black dog, who ran after the carriage for a good distance, tail wagging.

Near evening, they reached another small town. The two of them took two spots in a large communal bed, good spots closest to the edge and near the door, where it was breezy and cool.

Late at night, Wumei lay in bed, while beside him Zhang Ping read a newly bought book by the light shining in from the lantern in the corridor. From the street came the sound of the night watchman’s clapper.

The third watch. The gates of the underworld were closed. This year’s Zhongyuan Festival was over.

Another day had come.