The midday sun hammered against the tin roof of their small apartment, turning the rooms into an oven. Zhang Jie lay on the worn leather sofa in nothing but a pair of loose shorts, his chest slick with a thin sheen of sweat. The ceiling fan whirred overhead, pushing hot air in lazy circles, doing little to cut the oppressive heat.
From the bedroom doorway, Mengmeng padded out on bare feet. She wore a thin cotton tank top and a pair of tiny shorts that hardly covered her thighs. Her baby face was flushed pink, her hair tied up in a messy bun that left stray curls clinging to her damp neck. She carried two glasses of iced water, the condensation dripping onto her fingers.
“Brother Jie,” she called softly, using the childhood name she still favored when they were alone. “Drink something before you melt.”
He sat up slowly, his eyes tracing the familiar curve of her waist, the generous swell of her breasts beneath the thin fabric. Even after all these years of marriage, his heart still caught when he saw her like this—innocent, lovely, entirely his. He took the glass, his fingers brushing hers, and she blushed as if they were still teenagers sneaking kisses behind the school gym.
“Come here,” he said, shifting to make room. She curled up beside him, tucking her feet under his thigh, and rested her cheek against his shoulder. The heat of her body was a comfortable weight. He drank half the water in one long gulp.
“Remember that summer when we were twelve?” she murmured, tracing patterns on his chest. “When we snuck out to the creek behind your grandma’s house? You caught tadpoles in a jar and told me they’d turn into dragons.”
Zhang Jie laughed, a low rumble in his chest. “You cried when they all died the next day.”
“I didn’t cry,” she said, poking his ribs. “I just had something in my eye. And you said you’d catch me a real dragon someday.”
“I caught you instead,” he said, turning to press a kiss to her forehead. “That’s better than any dragon.”
She smiled, but it faded quickly. Her hand stilled on his chest, and she grew quiet in that way she had when something was turning over in her mind. He knew that silence. He’d seen it more often lately, especially when they passed the playground near their building, when she watched mothers pushing strollers, when her friends posted baby photos on their phones.
“Jie,” she said, her voice small, “do you think… are you happy? With me?”
He turned sharply, cupping her chin. “What kind of question is that? You’re everything. You know that.”
“I know. But sometimes I see you looking at me, and there’s something sad in your eyes. And I think…” She bit her lip, her eyes glistening. “I think maybe you want a child more than you say. And I can’t—I haven’t been able to—”
“No.” He pulled her close, his hand cradling the back of her head. “That’s not your fault. It’s mine. The doctor said my counts are low. It’s me, Mengmeng. Not you. Never you.”
She shook her head against his shoulder. “But I want to give you a baby. I want to see you hold our child. I want to be a mother so badly, Jie.”
Her voice cracked, and he felt the wet heat of her tears seeping into his skin. Guilt coiled in his stomach like a serpent. He thought of all the nights she’d lain beneath him, patient and hopeful, the way she’d press his hand to her belly afterward as if willing life to take root. And every month, when her cycle came, the quiet way she’d turn away in bed so he wouldn’t see her cry.
He had an idea. An ugly, desperate idea that had been whispered in his ear by his uncle Daniu last time they visited the countryside. *“If the well’s dry, you gotta borrow water from a neighbor,”* his uncle had said with that leer he tried to hide. *“A man does what he has to for his family.”*
Zhang Jie had told himself he would never consider it. But now, holding his weeping wife, feeling the soft weight of her trust in his arms, he wasn’t so sure.
“Mengmeng,” he said slowly, “what if we went to visit my uncle? In the village for a few days. Get out of this heat. Maybe… maybe he knows some old remedies, some herbal stuff. The old folks know things.”
She lifted her head, eyes red-rimmed, hope flickering like a candle in the dark. “You think it could help?”
“It’s worth a try,” he said, the lie smooth as oil. “Let’s pack a bag. We can drive down this evening, before the traffic gets bad.”
She brightened, the tears still on her cheeks but a smile breaking through. She was so trusting, so eager to believe in any possibility that might give him what he wanted. She had no idea what he was really planning. He couldn’t let her see it—not yet. Maybe not ever.
“Okay,” she said, nodding quickly. “Okay. I’ll pack light. Just a few dresses, sandals, some shorts for the heat. I can be ready in twenty minutes.”
She scrambled off the sofa, her hips swaying as she hurried to the bedroom. Through the doorway, he watched her bend over the suitcase, the thin shorts pulling tight across her round bottom. Her tank top rode up, exposing a sliver of pale skin above her waistband. She was so beautiful, so ripe and curvy, built for carrying a child. The injustice of it burned in his chest.
He followed her to the doorway, leaning against the frame. “Wear that light blue sundress,” he said. “The one with the thin straps. It’ll be cooler for the ride.”
She glanced back at him, a playful glint in her eyes. “You just like it because you can see my shoulders.”
“Is that a crime?”
She laughed, and the sound was like cool water on a hot day. She pulled the dress from the closet—a simple cotton shift that fell just above her knees—and held it up. “This one?”
“That one.”
She stripped off her tank top right there, unselfconscious in front of him, and pulled the sundress over her head. It settled over her curves, clinging to her damp skin. Without a bra, the fabric barely concealed the outline of her nipples, dark and peaked from the heat. She turned, posing playfully.
“Good enough for the countryside?”
“Good enough for the whole world,” he said, and meant it.
She stuffed the rest of her things into a small duffel—sandals, a toothbrush, a hairbrush—and zipped it closed. “Ready.”
Zhang Jie grabbed his keys from the hook by the door, his wallet from the counter. As he walked past her, he paused and pressed his palm flat against her belly, feeling its gentle warmth through the thin cotton. She covered his hand with hers.
“We’ll figure it out,” she said softly. “Together.”
He nodded, unable to speak past the lump in his throat. He took her hand, their fingers lacing together like they’d done a thousand times before, and led her out into the blazing afternoon sun.
The heat hit them like a wall, shimmering off the asphalt of the parking lot. He opened the passenger door for her, and she slid in, the dress riding up just enough to show the inner curves of her thighs. She tugged it down, blushing, and he shut the door.
As he walked around to the driver’s side, he looked up at the sky—a hard, bright blue with not a single cloud. The kind of sky that promised no relief. Somewhere ahead, in the village, his uncle would be waiting. And a plan would begin to unfold that Zhang Jie was not sure he could stop, even if he wanted to.
He got in, started the engine, and pulled out of the lot. Beside him, Mengmeng leaned her head against the window, her eyes drifting closed, a small smile on her lips. She looked peaceful, innocent, entirely unaware of the storm he was driving them toward.
He reached over and rested his hand on her knee. She stirred, smiled, and covered his hand with hers.
He told himself this was love. This was sacrifice. This was the only way.
He tried very hard to believe it.