The tomatoes and eggs had no sugar. Xiao Man noticed after two bites — his mother always put in a spoonful, and today she'd forgotten. He said nothing, just pressed his chopstick down on a piece of egg and left a dent.
The TV hung on the wall across from the table. Coming in the door, his father's first act was always to switch it on, and he never turned it off for dinner. He'd come back late from the construction site tonight, the grime still black under his fingernails after two washes. The newscaster was reading something important — Xiao Man could tell because his mother had stopped her chopsticks mid-air.
"…unified national academic registration, implementation of the Study-War system…"
"Turn it off," his mother said.
"Let's hear it," his grandfather said. He sat at the far end near the window, his back to the glass. Once it got dark the window turned to mirror, reflecting the three of them at the table, three sets of bowls.
Xiao Man caught a few words: matches, cards, ranking. His mind went straight to a picture — the older kids downstairs playing that game with cards, one each, slapped onto the steps, whoever flipped the other one's card over won.
"What's a ranking?" he asked.
"It means turning school into a string of matches," his grandfather said. "Fill up enough experience and you move up. No waiting for finals. No repeating years."
"What ranking does a six-year-old grind to?" His mother set her chopsticks on the rim of her bowl. "Old Zhou's grandson downstairs — two years at the new academy, doing problems every night until ten. He's seven."
"He likes it."
"He's afraid of losing," his mother said. "Now the whole building's competing over whose kid has the higher ranking. Used to be end-of-term exams, twice a year. Now it's every day."
Xiao Man thought of the older boy he'd run into at the stairwell last month. He'd been clutching a piece of paper, eyes red, went straight upstairs without a word. At the time Xiao Man hadn't known what had happened. Now he was starting to.
On the TV a woman had taken over, her voice level: "…all forms of paid top-ups for academic and competitive privileges are prohibited. Capital monopolization of advanced question banks, premium courses, and core tournament resources is prohibited…"
"That part's good," his grandfather said.
"What good does it do," his mother said. "No paid top-ups, so it comes down to who can afford tutors."
"Tutors won't get you far either," his grandfather said. "Didn't you hear what she said after — you have to earn it yourself to make it count."
"Earn it yourself." His mother gave a short, flat laugh. "His father wrecked his back on that site. I stand eight hours a day. What does our family have to earn anything with?"
Xiao Man's chopsticks stopped in the air. What does our family have — he understood those words. She wasn't asking. She was saying he couldn't do it. He tightened his grip on the chopsticks. They were bamboo, pressing into his palm.
"…primary school pupils may only accumulate and redeem material rewards. Cash withdrawal is prohibited. Failure to meet daily coursework targets will result in that day's earnings being frozen…"
"You can earn money." His mother pushed her bowl half a handspan forward. "Six-year-olds, studying and earning at the same time. This isn't school. This is a job."
"What they earn stays inside the school gates."
"Today it does. What about tomorrow?"
His father lifted his bowl and scooped down the last two mouthfuls. He hadn't raised his head since he sat down. The dust on his shoulders hadn't been brushed off and shook loose as he moved, leaving two small grey mounds on the edge of the table. He stood to refill his bowl, lifted the lid, looked, ladled in half a bowl, came back and sat down.
"Enough," his mother said. "Eat."
Xiao Man traced circles on the tabletop with the tip of his chopstick, three circles, each one smaller than the last. The question had been sitting under his tongue the whole time, pressing, uncomfortable, and finally he asked it.
"Can you play games at school?"
The table went still for a moment. His mother's face darkened. His grandfather's chopsticks stopped on the bowl's rim. His father looked up.
"It's not a game," his mother said.
"It's like a game," his grandfather said. "Get it right and it scores you a point."
"Then I'll play," Xiao Man said.
His mother set her bowl down on the table. Not hard, but the knock of bowl on wood was distinct. "Look at this — hasn't even started yet and he's already thinking about playing."
His grandfather put down his chopsticks and pushed himself up from the table. He wasn't tall; standing, he came to about the height of the TV cabinet. He walked to the television and turned the volume up one notch. The newscaster was reading the final item. Xiao Man only caught two words: pilot programme.
His grandfather turned around. He looked at his son first — his son, head down, spooning rice — then at his daughter-in-law. She was watching him, and her eyes had fire in them.
"I'll say one thing," his grandfather said. "Let him go."
"On what basis?" His mother's voice shot up. "Dad, you taught for thirty years. You understand this better than anyone — children are there to be taught, not to be experimented on. First batch in the whole country means first batch of lab rats. You know that as well as I do."
"I do."
"And you still want to send him?"
His grandfather didn't answer right away. He let go of the table edge and lowered his hands to his sides. Xiao Man knew those hands — on summer nights they had fanned him cool; when he was doing his homework, they had pressed over his own hands and guided him stroke by stroke through his characters. The backs were covered in fine lines, like a riverbed that had dried out.
"You two have run the numbers, and you've run them right — better than me. But you've left one thing out."
"What thing?"
His grandfather wasn't looking at his mother. He was looking at Xiao Man. "From the moment you walked in tonight until now, has either of you asked him — does he want to go?"
On the television the segment had changed to pipe repairs. The tomato and egg dish had gone cold, a thin skin forming across the surface. His mother spoke first, her voice coming down.
"All right. Your turn. Tell us."
Xiao Man swallowed his mouthful of rice. "I want to go."
"Why?" his mother asked. "The truth."
He thought for a moment. He couldn't find anything that sounded right, so he said what was true. "Because you can play games."
Three seconds of silence around the table. His grandfather laughed, laughed out loud, and the laugh turned into a cough, and when the cough was done he was still laughing, and somewhere in the laughing his eyes went wet.
Then Xiao Man said something else. He said it slowly, one word at a time, like writing on a blackboard.
"I'm going to come first."
On the TV, water rushed through pipes. His grandfather's laugh froze on his face. His mother's chopsticks stopped in the air. His father raised his head.
"What did you say?" his mother asked.
"I'm going to come first."
"Why?"
Xiao Man looked at her. "Because just now you said, what does our family have. I'm going to bring something back."
His mother's mouth opened slightly. She reached for the water glass on the table, took two tries to get it, drank a sip, set it back down. His father put his bowl aside, wiped his hands on his trousers, and rubbed Xiao Man's head. His hand was rough and it rasped against his hair.
That night, after his mother had finished in the kitchen, she sat on the edge of his bed for a long time. "If you want to go, I won't stop you," she said. "One condition — if you can't take it, come back. Don't push through it."
Xiao Man nodded under his blanket. "Did you hear me?"
"I heard you."
She tucked the corner of the duvet in, stood up, and switched off the light. A sliver of light from the living room came through the gap under the door, along with the sound of the television, still on. Xiao Man lay there a while, then got up for water. His grandfather was still at the table, the TV now off, a cup of cooled water sitting in front of him.
"Can't sleep?"
Xiao Man shook his head. "Scared?"
He thought about it, then nodded. "Of what?"
He couldn't say exactly. There were a lot of things — afraid he wouldn't know enough characters, afraid he'd be slow, afraid every kid in that room would be faster than him.
His grandfather reached over and pressed a hand lightly to his head. "If you're slow, you go slow. No one's chasing you."
Xiao Man drank a sip of water, holding the cup in both hands. It was a little heavy.
"Grandpa, why did you want me to go?"
His grandfather picked up his own cup of cold water, took a sip, and set it down. "I taught for thirty years. Stood up front and talked, told a roomful of people everything I knew."
"Wasn't that good?"
"It was good. Thirty years of it, and I only understood one thing at the very end — everything I taught them was mine. What they walked away with had to be what they'd worked out for themselves."
Xiao Man thought for a moment. "So if I work it out myself, it's mine?"
His grandfather looked at him. A strip of light from a streetlamp came through the gap in the curtains and lay across the table.
"That's right. Go to bed."
Xiao Man went back to his room. He didn't fall asleep straight away. He raised his right hand in front of his face and looked at it in the dark — five fingers, short, nails clipped down to nothing. That afternoon his grandfather had opened them one by one, just like this. He made a fist, held it, let it go, then made it again.
He was six years old. He had no idea how heavy the words come first were, or how many people were already ahead of him in line. He only knew that tonight his mother had said, what does our family have. He said it to himself once. Then again.
Then he said: I'll bring something back.