The Boy at the Brick Factory

by Huina Zheng

The morning sun pierced through a thin veil of mist. Yong stood beside the half-built kiln, watching workers lay tar paper across the roof. Though it was only late March, sweat was already gathering on his forehead. Spring in southern China always arrived too early, and too warm.

A noise rippled from the distance. The workers froze mid-motion. Yong turned and saw a crowd surging down the dirt path. His chest tightened. He ran through the mud toward the yard, where his boss, Yao, stood at the doorway of the small house that doubled as an office, face set and unreadable. Yong moved quickly to his side. Wen joined them almost at once. They had expected this.

Yong had grown up fighting, cornered often, never afraid. Both he and Wen were known across the village for their toughness. Their presence here was precaution. And besides, there was Yao. Though Yong had only met him after the brick factory opened, he’d grown up on his grandfather’s stories of Yao’s fearlessness. In the past few months, that legend had taken living form. Yong wanted him to succeed.

Behind them, Yao’s older brother, Jun, and his partner, Sheng stood on guard.

Yong scanned the scene. Thirty or forty villagers, gripping hoes, sickles, wooden sticks, even cleavers, halted a few steps away, eyes blazing. Sweat chilled his palms. They were only five, and unarmed.

He looked at Yao. His boss’ voice dropped low.

“Go to the orchard in Ma’an Village,” he said to Wen. “Tell the owner I want to borrow his hunting gun.”

The words hunting gun struck Yong like a shot. His heartbeat climbed into his throat.

Yao pressed a truck key into Wen’s hand.

“Hide it once you’ve got it. Unless it’s the last resort, don’t show it.”

Wen nodded and slipped away toward the side of the crowd. Moments later, the small pickup by the kiln roared to life and vanished in a cloud of dust.

Yong sensed something different in Yao that morning. He still stood in front, medium build, yet solid as a dike against the flood of villagers. The same quiet authority held, but Yong, standing closest, noticed what others couldn’t: the sharp, hawk-like light in Yao’s eyes now dimmed behind a thin mist; his steps, once crisp, had grown heavier, as if the mud itself was pulling him down.

Yao gave a deep, guttural cough and spat phlegm onto the ground.

The villagers tightened their circle, blades catching the sun. Yong swept his gaze across their furious faces, torn between dread and pity. They were all from the same village, his people as much as Yao’s.

An old man with a shock of white hair pushed forward, leaning on a cane. “We’re tearing this factory down today.”

Yao’s mouth twitched. “Elder, you shouldn’t be here,” he said evenly. “Where are the young ones?”

“It’s not just the old who oppose you!” A scarred middle-aged man stepped up, steadying the old man’s arm.

That’s Zhonglin, Yong realized, his heart tightening. My old neighbor.

Yao nodded. “Then take good care of the elder. If anything happens to him, people will say my factory bullies the weak.” He turned. “Yong, bring him a chair.”

Yong fetched a plastic stool from the office and set it beside the old man. “Please, sit.”

The old man ignored him, but Zhonglin eased him down.

Yao said, “Elder, let the young ones speak.”

“Don’t think your little show will make us forgive you!” Zhonglin straightened, pointing at Yao.

The signal.

Yong caught the shift in Zhonglin’s body, the sharp rise of his shoulders, the way his finger sliced the air. The fight hadn’t started, but Yong felt it coming. His muscles locked, heat rushing up his arms. He had seen that posture too many times before; it was always the second before someone swung.

What should he do? Should he strike first, and end it before it began? Yong was sure he could. But that would mean severing the last thread with the man who once carried him on his shoulders to watch opera, shattering a lifetime of neighborly bond with a single blow.

A punch might settle the moment, but it would crush something far heavier. His own past.

A low murmur rippled through the crowd, like a current sliding under still water. Yong snapped back. Yao was speaking. He had said something, but what? Yong held his breath, trying to catch the words that might turn the tide.

“The factory isn’t even built yet,” Yao’s voice rang out, cutting through the noise. “What are you here to fight about?”

“When it’s built, its smoke will kill our orchards!” someone shouted, sparking an uproar.

“Then wait until it’s running!” Yao shot back. “If the smoke harms your trees, I, Zhang Yao, swear, you’ll be paid in full.”

“Who believes that? You bosses are all liars!” Zhonglin barked.

“That’s right!”

“Exactly!”

The uproar swelled. Sickles flashed; hoes slammed against the ground with dull, dangerous thuds.

“Yao, what now?”

Jun’s voice trembled beside him.

“Go inside. Lock the door. I’ll handle this.” Yao’s gaze never left the crowd.

Jun hesitated, then turned and vanished into the office.

Just then the pickup tore back into the yard, skidding to a stop in a cloud of dust. Wen jumped down, ran to Yao, and gave a sharp nod.

The gun was in the truck. A shiver, half dread, half awe, ran through Yong.

“We’ll never let that factory open!”

The shout came from a broad-faced man glaring at Yao. Yong recognized him. Liang, a distant relative.

Yong leaned forward, meeting Liang’s eyes. The resolve there made him flinch. He looked away, scanning other faces: furious, flushed, unyielding.

“Let’s talk this through,” Wen said, arms open. “We’re one village, one blood.”

“If he saw us as family, he wouldn’t poison our land!” Liang’s retort reignited the crowd.

“That’s right!”

“Tear it down!”

“Tear down the factory!”

“Tear—down—the—factory!”

The chant grew louder, steadier, more dangerous.

“Who dares?!” Yao’s roar cracked through the air like thunder. He threw his arms wide. “Whoever steps forward first, don’t blame me if my fists don’t see where they land!”

The crowd froze as if gripped by an unseen hand. Silence fell, thick and taut. Faces turned toward one another, uncertain, but no one moved.

Yong pressed his lips together, his gaze shifting between the restless crowd and Yao’s rigid profile. His muscles ached from strain. He envied Wen, who could still speak to calm others, while he, choking on thoughts, couldn’t force out a word.

The stillness stretched, long enough to become its own sound.

Yao stepped forward. The crowd stepped back.

“You want an answer?” he shouted. “Fine. I’ll give you one. If the smoke from my factory ruins a single tree, I’ll pay every coin owed.”

“Words mean nothing,” someone stammered. “Why should we believe you?”

Yao’s eyes fixed on the speaker, a thin young man, sweating but defiant. “Why?” he gave a short, cold laugh. “Haven’t you heard the saying, ‘the monk may run, but the temple stays’? My factory stands here, and so do I. When the time comes, I’ll be waiting with tea ready for you to come demand your due.”

“He’s right,” Wen said. “Ask anyone about Yao. He’s never run from his word.”

“He… he’s right…” Yong murmured, though his voice vanished into the heavy air.

The crowd began murmuring again, the fury drained away.

Time stretched thin. Two long minutes passed before Yao spoke again. “Stay here if you like,” he said at last, calm once more. “Enjoy the shade. I have work to do.”

He patted Yong’s arm. Yong understood and followed.

No one stopped them.

As the two men climbed into the truck, whispers rustled through the crowd like dry leaves. The engine growled, and the truck bumped down the muddy road until it vanished at the bend.



Boss Chen, owner of a shuttered brick factory on the outskirts of Dongguan, sat alone in his bare office. Everything of value was gone. Only a few blue plastic stools remained, making the emptiness sharper.

When Yao and Yong entered, Chen didn’t rise, just lifted his eyes.

“Apologies, Boss Chen,” Yao said, extending his hand. “Something came up in the village. I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.”

Yong hesitated behind him. Should he step forward or stay back? He chose the latter, half a step away, a small bow.

When their hands parted, Yao sat on one of the stools. Yong followed, careful and upright.

“A few buyers came these days asking to see the brick press,” Chen said, taking the cigarette Yao offered. “I turned them down. Told them I’d promised it to you.”

Yong’s pulse tightened. It sounded like the start of a price game. Brick presses were the heart of a factory, so sellers could always make them rare.

“Much appreciated,” Yao said, leaning forward to light Chen’s cigarette. “I’m here to buy it, sincerely.”

“That’s why I waited.” Chen drew, smoke curling in the dim air. “Someone offered more, but I didn’t budge.”

“I won’t forget that favor.”

“The machine’s barely three years old,” Chen said. “Still in its prime. Good secondhand equipment’s hard to find. It works like new, costs far less.”

Yong glanced at Yao. His polite, almost humble smile was nothing like the iron authority he’d shown facing the villagers that morning. “I’ve no doubt about your reputation,” Yao said, the smile still on his face. “But used machines always hide a bit of wear, a few quirks. Maintenance can be costly. New ones come with warranty and peace of mind.”

“No need to worry.” Chen’s smile held, though a vein rose on his neck. “The machine’s in the shed. I can take you to see it.”

“No need,” Yao waved him off. “The friend who introduced us swore by your honesty. I trust him, and I trust you.”

“I’ve called Master Huang. Once we agree on the price, he’ll start dismantling.”

“Perfect.”

So this was the man Grandpa always praised, Yong thought, watching Yao’s composed profile. He could face conflict head-on yet negotiate with calm precision. Yong realized Yao seldom spent time with peers; his friends were elders like Grandpa. Maybe that was how he learned his steadiness by dealing with men who measured words by weight.

In the end, Yao secured the brick press and tools at a fair price. They shook hands again. Yao patted Yong’s arm, and the three walked toward the shed.

Master Huang was already there, grease-stained work suit, helmet strapped, gloves thick and worn. He grinned, teeth yellowed by smoke.

“Master Huang, let me help,” Yong said, taking the spare gloves.

“Appreciate it,” Yao said.

“With this young man lending a hand,” Huang said, voice booming, “we’ll have it all down and loaded by tomorrow afternoon.”

“That’s a big help,” Yao said.



Yong followed Yao into the hotel’s twin room and stopped, drawing a quick breath.

The room was cramped. Two sagging mattresses filled nearly all the space, their white sheets tinged with yellow. The carpet was stained, the air thick with mold and a faint trace of laughter from the next room. Yao seemed not to notice. He walked to the bed by the wall and dropped his bag.

“Rest a bit,” he said.

Dinner had been two plates of fried noodles from the stall downstairs. Now, watching Yao so calm in this shabby room, Yong felt a surge of respect. The man could endure anything. The feeling swelled inside him like a stretched rubber band, tense, but unbroken.

“Master Huang will reach our factory the day after tomorrow,” Yao said, sitting on the edge of the bed. His voice was tired but steady. “Installation will take four or five days. After that, we start production.” He turned to Yong, his eyes soft. “When that happens, try out the jobs and see which one fits. They’re all hard work. If it doesn’t suit you, say so. You’re young. Once you find what you’re good at, stay with it. Learn to endure. Your life will follow where you spend your time.”

“My grandfather used to say that,” Yong said. “Your life follows where your time goes.”

“You remember?” A faint smile crossed Yao’s face. “He told me the same. No matter how rough the storm, wait a little longer, and sunlight always comes.”

“He always spoke with such wisdom.”

“If not for his background, he could’ve been a great teacher,” Yao said. “To me, he already was. He went through so much, yet never complained. He always believed I was a good man, when no one else did.” He paused. “He was old enough to be my father, but in the village, he was one of the few I called a friend.”

“After you left, he often mentioned you.”

“I should’ve gone back,” Yao said softly. “I didn’t forget him. I just wanted to return once I’d made something of myself to show him I’d done it. But... it was too late.”

“When he was bedridden, he spoke of you,” Yong said. “He told me if you hadn’t stopped him that day, he would’ve been buried in the mudslide.”

“Your grandfather was a good man.”

“He was.”

Silence settled, heavy in the damp air. Yao lit a cigarette, waved the smoke aside.

“It’s late. We’ve got a full day tomorrow. Go shower.”

Yong nodded, pulled out clean clothes, and stepped into the bathroom. The switch clicked; a weak yellow light flickered on, barely touching the corners.

He came from a modest home his mother kept spotless. He tried not to look at the yellow ring around the faucet or the stains on the toilet. His gaze stopped at the wall where a few tiles had fallen off, exposing gray cement beneath.

He turned the shower handle. Only icy water burst out. He tried the hot tap several times. Nothing. With a sigh, he thought of the winters when he swam in the frozen river.

He gritted his teeth and stepped under the cold spray. The shock tightened his skin; goosebumps rose on his arms. He shivered once but stayed there, refusing to move away.



By dusk the next day, Yong returned to the small shop his family ran beside the village square. When he opened the door, his mother, Juying, sat in the shadow behind the display window, watching the square fall quiet.

The light was fading; only a thin band of warmth lingered on the horizon. Across the village came the long calls of mothers summoning children home for dinner. Yong pulled the cord in the corner, and a single bulb flicked on, casting a weak yellow glow.

Juying went into the kitchen. When she came out, she carried two dishes, stir-fried greens and poached chicken, and set them on the table. Yong filled both bowls with rice.

She placed a drumstick in his bowl. “I heard a crowd went to the factory yesterday. No fighting, was there?”

“No.” Yong kept his head down.

“How did it end?”

“They left.”

“Left?” Suspicion crept into her tone. “This isn’t over. They’re many, and you should be careful. Yao’s building that factory, they’ll try to stop him. But if he really makes it work… that’d be something.”

Yong said nothing, chewing a stem of glossy greens.

“The plot by the pond,” Juying went on. “I planned to plant vegetables there. Today I found Zhonglin’s family took it. After dinner, go get it back. It’s ours.”

Zhonglin’s furious face at the factory flashed in Yong’s mind.

“Remember to go,” his mother urged.

He stayed silent.

“Are you going or not?” She snapped, throwing her chopsticks onto the table.

“The factory’s enough trouble,” Yong swallowed hard. “If I argue about that plot, he’ll only take it out on Yao.”

“You’re just afraid, like your father!”

Heat shot up Yong’s neck. He slammed his chopsticks down. “Don’t bring him up,” he said through his teeth. “I’m not a coward like him.”

Silence fell. Juying froze, eyes startled. Yong set his bowl aside, head lowered, shoulders tight.

After a long moment she whispered, “Of course you’re not like him.” Her eyes lifted, broken with sorrow. “I know you didn’t like your father. He wasn’t much, but he was still your father. If he were alive to hear you say that, it would’ve killed him.”

She sighed. “It’s my fault. Even when he hit me, I shouldn’t have complained to you. In this village, how many men don’t hit their wives?” She wiped her nose with the back of her hand.

Yong opened his mouth but no words came.

“He was still your father. The dead deserve respect. It’s my fault.”

Yong picked up his chopsticks, hand trembling, and placed the tenderest piece of chicken, dark with soy sauce, into her bowl.

“Mom,” his voice rasped, “the food’s getting cold. Eat while it’s warm.”



Yong pulled the cord, cutting the last light. He lay on the bed, turning from side to side, his thoughts a tangle he couldn’t undo.

His father died when he was five. In memory the man was always drunk, shouting, hitting his mother. Yong saw her pinned to the floor, fists raining down, while he crouched in a corner and cried until his voice broke. The memory was a scar that never healed, tearing open again in the dark.

Yet the man who terrorized their home was the village fool, the “coward.” He neither farmed nor worked, just drifted around. Someone would shout, “Are you even a man?” He’d grin, pat his crotch, and say, “Come touch and find out.” Laughter followed. Even now, Yong wished he could sink into the ground remembering it.

His mother, by contrast, was never still. Before dawn she sold radish cakes at the market; after, she planted vegetables, tended the lychees, cleaned the house. As a child, Yong sat under a tree watching her bent back in the heat. The image stayed with him. Every thought of his father brought contempt and hate.

He pushed the pillow aside, eyes opening and closing. Footsteps passed outside.

The village had long mocked his father. Even his death became a joke. One night, drunk, he fell face-first into the latrine and was found stiff the next morning. After that, children called Yong the latrine’s son.

Once, when boys taunted him, he threw a stone. One rushed forward. Yong dodged, struck, dropped him. Another time, surrounded, he lunged at the leader and bit down hard. In that instant his father’s drunken grin flashed before him. I’m not you. I’ll never be you. He took their blows without letting go until he tasted blood.

He’d won. No one in the village touched him again. He built a wall of fury, keeping out their laughter, trapping himself inside. Sometimes he envied boys on their fathers’ shoulders, then spat at the weakness. He needed no father, only strength.

In middle school, no one asked about his family. After graduation he apprenticed at a motorcycle shop. Two years later, when Yao opened the brick factory, he joined him. Still, whenever whispers stopped as he turned, he felt them piercing like poisoned needles.

He rolled over, pulling the blanket over his head. He didn’t hear the door open, only his mother’s hesitant voice.

“Yong… are you asleep?”

He stayed still, holding his breath.

“I heard the bed creak when you moved,” she said. “Thought you might still be awake. I didn’t mean what I said earlier. I’ve grown short-tempered these years. I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I know you understand, but it’s been on my mind—”

“Mom, I know. I’m not angry,” Yong said.

“Of course you’re not that kind.”

“Don’t worry, Mom. It’s late. Get some rest.”

His tone was calm, almost flat.

The door clicked shut.



Ten days later, the kiln was fired for the first time, and a thin plume of blue smoke rose from the chimney.

The following days blurred together. The kiln burned only on clear days, and lately there had been too many of them. The sky looked like a strip of faded blue cloth without a single cloud. At first light each morning, Yao stood in the yard watching the chimney. On windy days, the smoke thinned and unraveled before it reached the ridge; on windless ones, it shot straight up, then lost its lift and fell into a gray fog that drifted toward the orchards. Whenever this happened, Yong’s gaze followed Yao’s, watching the haze creep over the trees.

Every now and then, two or three villagers came to complain about the smell or the smoke. Yong and Wen stood beside Yao while he simply waved a hand, pointed to the tea table, and said, “Help yourselves,” before returning to his work. The visitors lingered awkwardly, their tea cooling untouched. Yet Yong sensed the resentment that trailed behind them as they walked away.

A month later, that resentment finally hardened.

On a humid morning heavy enough to wring water from the air, a crowd surged toward the brick factory, curses rising with the dust. Yong’s chest tightened, but Yao only quickened his steps and went toward the office door.

Their faces were taut with anger, hoes and sickles glinting in the light. Leading them was a man with a large mole at the corner of his mouth; it trembled with every sharp twist of his expression. He slammed a bamboo basket onto the doorstep.

“Zhang Yao! Don’t’ forget your promise!” he shouted, jabbing a finger, inches from Yao’s nose. “Look at these plum trees!”

Yong glanced into the basket. The scorched yellow leaf edges curled like paper held too close to flame, and the new shoots had wilted into a dark, lifeless brown before they ever had a chance to unfold.

Yao bent, picked up a leaf, turned it in his hand, then met the man’s eyes. “Don’t worry. The factory will take full responsibility.”

Yong stood close beside him, scanning the crowd like a hawk. His body leaned forward, muscles taut, a drawn bow ready to snap.

“I want you ruined!” the man spat.

“Shut the factory down!” someone yelled.

“Make him pay!” more voices followed.

Yong knew Yao well. Threats like these would never break him; they only crossed his pride. Unlike Yong’s father, Yao’s pride was a sleeping lion; once roused, it would not retreat. Straightening his back, Yong felt his chest swell with the same defiance.

“How much per tree?” Yao asked.

Yong understood the move. The question sliced through the noise, forcing everyone back to the point.

Faces turned uncertain; no one answered.

“Since there’s no figure,” Yao said, “I’ll ask the government to assess the damage.”

“Who knows if you’re lying?”

“We won’t be fooled!”

Amid the shouting, the leader only repeated, “Pay up! You must pay!”

“If you want compensation, give me a number!” Yao’s voice burst like thunder, silencing the crowd.

Watching his tall back, Yong felt a surge of pride. This was what he wanted to become: unyielding in crisis, guarding his principles. Yao showed him that true strength lay in courage and clarity.

“Tomorrow morning,” Yao continued, calm again, “I’ll invite town officials to inspect the site. If the smoke caused the damage, we’ll pay what’s due. If no one comes, you know where to find me. The factory is here, and so am I.”

“You’d better not trick us,” the man muttered, his tone hard but weaker now. “If you cheat, we’ll tear it down!”



At dawn the next day, Yao started the truck and drove off, disappearing down the dirt road toward the township office.

By late morning he was back with a middle-aged man in black-rimmed glasses and a briefcase under his arm: Mr. Chen, the local official for their district. When they appeared at the edge of the orchard, the farmers who had raged the day before fell silent. The anger left their faces, replaced by a mix of respect, unease, and hope.

Yao said nothing. He nodded to the leader and followed Mr. Chen into the orchard with a dozen growers trailing behind. From the factory, Yong watched them move among the trees until he lost them.

Three hours later, Yao and Mr. Chen emerged. Yong hurried forward. Yao looked tired but steady. He clapped Yong’s shoulder and said, “It’s settled.”

Under Mr. Chen’s witness, they had agreed on a fair price. The factory would pay yearly compensation. The matter was closed.

Then Yao drove Mr. Chen toward the town’s only seafood restaurant, the most luxurious one.

Yong watched the truck fade down the road and understood. The meal wasn’t for celebration but for connection, a gesture to secure goodwill, the kind that decided whether the factory could truly take root here. Yao was paving the road ahead in his own way.



Two weeks passed. No villagers came again.

Yao stood in the yard, watching thick smoke rise from the chimney. Yong studied the furrow in his brow. To Yong, the smoke was the factory’s breath, the fire of livelihood, a flag of victory.

“Something wrong?”

“Look at that chimney,” Yao said. “Only ten meters high. The smoke eats the sky’s color.”

Yong followed his gaze. Gray fumes hung low, like a dirty cloth smearing the ridge where mountain met sky.

“Will the villagers come again?” he asked.

“No,” Yao said. “Not them. Their anger can be paid off. But this isn’t right.” He lit a cigarette and took a long drag. “We can’t just watch the ground beneath our feet. The smoke should go where it belongs.”

Yong froze. For the first time, he saw that some things are done not from fear or pressure, but because they are right. He had always thought strength meant attack or defense, never protection.

Yao pointed to the green hill behind the kilns. “See that mountain? We’ll run a pipe up there and build a higher stack. Let the wind carry the exhaust away.”

Yong swallowed. The hill rose steep and tall, thirty stories, at least. He could already see the slopes stripped bare, two gray pipes cutting through them like scars. Smoke would rise from the summit and vanish into blue, while the village below could breathe again.

“But the cost…”

“The factory will survive,” Yao said. He patted Yong’s shoulder and walked back toward the yard.

Yong stood still, watching his steady back. A wave of feeling rose in his chest. He understood now: Yao’s frown was not fear of trouble but the weight of responsibility.

The fortress he had built with fists and teeth cracked open. He had believed courage meant never bowing, making every challenger pay. But Yao showed him that true strength was not in fighting; it was in choosing not to harm.

He didn’t need to be feared. He could be like Yao, a man who protected. The thought filled him with a strength unlike any fight he’d ever won.

He drew a deep breath and followed after him.