When Mr. Zhao came knocking, Ji Xiaosong was examining the dagger engraved with "714."
Three measured knocks, neither hurried nor slow. It was a rhythm unique to him.
"Comrade Ji, are you in?" came Mr. Zhao's deliberately hushed voice from outside.
Ji Xiaosong quickly hid the dagger under her pillow, grabbing a blue cloth jacket and throwing it on.
By the time she opened the door, she was already wearing that goofy, harmless smile. "Mr. Zhao? Any instructions?"
Mr. Zhao wasn't wearing his signature Mao suit today. He'd changed into a fairly new set of navy-blue work clothes and was carrying a mesh bag holding two jars of canned oranges and a slab of pork belly wrapped in butcher paper.
In the seventies, this was quite a lavish gift.
"My wife..."
Mr. Zhao cleared his throat, the tips of his ears turning a little red. "My wife, Liu Shufen, would like to invite you over for a simple meal. It's the weekend, and Xiao Juan is home too."
