The kitchen is half workbench, half breakfast. I unfold a few pieces of paper from a repurposed pencil box—no labels, just quick diagrams and tiny price guesses in the corners. I slide it across and give short rundowns: what it does, how it does it, why it scales, what it costs.

  Mother scans fast and trims faster. Anything that counts people, stores totals, “hears,” “speaks,” or smells like problems goes back into the box. “Maskirovka bait,” she says, and that’s the end of it. What’s left is clean and apolitical: practical, small, buildable in a kitchen. We circle two to prototype and one to polish for the competition. I refold the sketches and tuck them away.

  A few minutes later I’m in physical education.

  We run laps in the yard while the dust swirls. I keep my stride small and even, counting in my head to keep from drifting into the wrong, inefficient gait my body wants to use. On the third lap Instructor Zhang blows the whistle. “Pace, not sprint,” he says. I pass two boys without breathing hard and then tuck in behind the next, letting my steps sound a little heavier than they need to.

  Rope climb. Palms on hemp, feet pinch, hands-over-hands. I move quickly enough to look practiced, this being one of two parts of this new life I can’t use my adult memories to be superior to my peers. At the top I touch the beam, pause one full second so the burn feels honest, then slide down with my knees bent so it thumps when I land. Balance rail, medicine-ball toss, relay with cones. I hit each mark, miss one pass on purpose, laugh once with the team so the morning files under normal.

  An adult at the fence glances at my armband and then my face. A brief, anonymous glance. I let it skim off.

  After midday porridge and apple yogurt, theory.

  Arithmetic first: six problems that want long multiplication. I finish early, keep my hand down, and when called I work one on the board the slow way. Applied arithmetic next: the sheet wants liters from buckets; I draw the unit ladder and write the check line on the board. The instructor has me leave it up without comment.

  A short physical exercise follows.

  Reading last. The others bumble their way through. I outpace them with some visible effort and write the answers in the same unsteady handwriting as always. Instructor Ren slides a longer passage onto my desk without explaining. I work through it without complaint, trace a line with a fingertip so it looks like I’m keeping place.

  By the bell, I’m ready to eat my own fingers to escape the boredom. The stall will be more exciting this weekend.

  The sign is a whitish-gray board with neat block letters: PORTRAIT — 5 FEN / TWO PEOPLE — 10 FEN. Three example sketches clipped across the top: Meiyu, Lian, me.

  Father is here alone with me. He leans on a folding chair, eyes on the street, radio low in his lap.

  Lines change fast here. Three people, then none, then fifteen at once. You can feel how the city remembers food lines—how a few bodies can turn into a crowd just because someone thinks supply is thin and instinct kicks in.

  The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  I work steady. Oval, anchor lines, then shadow under the brow, along the nose. Hatched tone at the cheekbone, soft blend at the jaw. Eyes last, then hair in planes and strands, not one stroke—three layers: shape, weight, flyaways. Sign the corner, blow once to dry the charcoal, slide right.

  The first hour is parents with unruly children and young couples. My father chuckles while I tell small children to “hold still.”

  A clerk wants a pair. I check the sign, say “ten fen,” and keep drawing while she hesitates. She pays. I place them side by side in light that makes them look like they belong in the same frame.

  Someone asks for color. I shake my head. “Supply issues,” I say. “I can’t afford pigments right now.” I keep my tone plain. They nod and pay anyway.

  A boy my age steps up alone and tries to look serious. He puts down three fen. I look at his hand, then at his face. “I’ll draw you,” I say, “but you have to bring the rest later.” He swallows and nods. I make the light sit on his mouth like he’s holding back a smile. When I hand it over I add, “Next week is fine.” He promises twice, tight voice, and runs.

  Coins hit the table like rain in the period dramas Mother watches. Five from a mother who already had one done for her older child and now wants one for the younger. Ten from a couple who look like they come straight from a sitcom with their blushing faces. A grandmother pays with a coin that was minted two hundred years ago; I count the change back slow so the people behind can hear the numbers.

  Suyin from the depot passes, eyes flicking from the line to my hand. She doesn’t stop. A servitor with a back-brace moves a disassembled stall through the crowd without bumping a single heel. Father tilts the radio just enough to catch a news bulletin, then turns it down again.

  By midafternoon the folder is lighter than I planned. I switch to half-sheets and say, “Three fen,” in the same voice. No one argues. The line stretches, then collapses, then stretches again. Rhythm.

  We close when the shadow reaches the stall marker. Paper back in the folder, clips off the board, coins and notes into the bag. Father folds the chair; I loosen the awning rope.

  At the bank window, the clerk counts the stack and stamps a slip. Tax is deducted, and we take the remainder in cash rather than leave it on account.

  We dump the coins and notes onto the table at home and sort by habit. Father stacks tens, I rake the fives into little hills, then the odd fen that got bent into ovals. Mother writes the columns in her tiny block hand.

  “Gross,” she says.

  I read the piles back. She writes the number, then subtracts what the bank already took.

  “Net,” she says.

  It is always important to let them have these moments, moments where they feel like they teach me.

  I add a slip that says boy owes 2 fen and put it under the ledger. Mother nods once. “Next week he brings it or he doesn’t,” she says. “Either way we don’t ask.”

  “People remember how a stall makes them feel,” she told me. “Losing two fen is better than losing face.” Father agreed. “You did right,” he said. “That boy’s mother will tell someone you were kind. Kindness brings more feet than a scold. Even if she never sees the portrait, the other customers saw what you did.”

  “Next time, lead the conversation,” she continues. “Ask for the price up front, gently. Or give them a choice: ‘A small sketch for what you have, or a full portrait if you return with the rest.’ If someone’s short by too much, point to the sign and offer to hold a place until afternoon. That keeps their face and yours.”

  We decide to keep prices the same. Five and ten. No color yet or in the foreseeable future.

  Father rubs his thumb across a coin until it squeaks. “Folder’s half empty,” he says. “We need to do a paper run tomorrow.”

  “I will write a list and buy the parts next Tuesday; might as well buy paper then,” Mother answers.

  I open the stiff folder and slide three fresh sample portraits into the front. The old ones go into another folder. We trade them out so people think the work feels fresh every week. As I do so and listen to them both speak I find the humor in the age-old money problem.

  Money arrives like rain and leaves like steam. Every coin already belongs to the next coin. To keep the line long on Sunday, we buy more paper on Monday. To build the fan, we buy sensors that may not exist.

  Capitalism has unsurprisingly survived the Succession Wars.