“Alert! Fresh ant soup is coming.” Zhang Xin poured the boiling water into the tiny hole on the ground, his hands shaking because the kettle was heavy. He and I marveled at the immediate collapse of the loose soil around the hole and the string of dead ants that popped out. The steaming mud smelled of boiled grass and slimy moss.
The fun evaporated fast: the water stopped moving, the casualties were final, and our scalps burnt from the ripening sunshine. We rushed into Zhang Xin’s home to cool our heads under the tap water. I wrapped his mother’s white towel around my hair, while Zhang Xin let his crew cut dry naturally.
“Now what?” he asked, feeling the thin layer of his hair.
On just the fourth day of our summer vacation, we had exhausted these connected narrow hutongs where our activities were allowed. We had roamed the empty alleys, peeked inside houses, rummaged through our parents’ drawers, and climbed over walls. Our parents didn’t allow us to run to the main street where traffic was busy and a new shopping mall was under construction. A day could be so long that our freshly gained freedom soon lost its glamor.
