The sun was beating down hard already, and his throat was dry to the point of closing up. He swallowed a few times, but barely a drop of spit went down his throat. Before he could do anything else, he would need to find water. In every country hamlet, there was a well near the village tree where the women came to fetch water for the day. One only had to look for the tallest tree or follow wherever girls were headed, balancing a large clay jug on their heads. Here, there were no trees anywhere, just endless streets filled with every type of human being except young girls fetching water. He spotted a matron carrying a basket nearby, and caught up to her.
“Excuse me, Aunt, where can I get some water?” His words came out dry and rusty as nails, and the woman went on her way without even slowing down for a moment. The next two people he approached also kept walking as though they hadn’t heard him. He had thought that the latter, who looked like a university student, would surely stop and say something. When the youth also coldly passed him by, the boy felt all the blood rush down from his head, making it hard to stay on his feet. He found a piece of shade under the eaves of a building and plopped down on his bottom, making no effort to soften his landing—so drained was he of any energy. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. One of the traveling merchants had done so when he was especially tired, and the gesture had impressed the boy as soothing, but not shameful or childish.
“You from the country?”
The boy put his hands down and looked up to see another boy around his age.
“I’m not,” the boy instinctively lied.
“What’s your name?”
“Nam JungHo.”
“Ha, you’re a country bumpkin all right. Who gives out his name to a stranger like that, except rustics who just passed through the gate that day?”
“How old are you, you little shit?” JungHo said. “You talk like you’re itching for a beating.” JungHo was only twelve, but he’d already had a reputation for being the best fighter among the village urchins back home. While small-boned, he was wiry and quick. Moreover, he wasn’t at all afraid of pain and only cared about how much he could beat up his opponent, which was how he defeated boys bigger and older than he was.
“You crack me up. You look like you haven’t eaten for days. You’re so weak you can barely stand up,” the city boy sneered.
In the blink of an eye, JungHo was standing with balled-up fists raised over his chin, ready to strike. The city boy was taller than JungHo, but only by a few inches.
“I was only joking,” the city boy said, quickly changing his tone. “You don’t need to get so riled up.”
“Just leave me alone, you shitty dog,” JungHo said quietly, with his fists still up. “Leave me in peace!”
“Hey, I’ll leave you alone. But you look like you need some water or food, or something,” the city boy said. “I’ll show you where to get water, if you come with me.”
“I bet you’re lying,” JungHo said.
“If it turns out I lied, you can always beat me up then, right?” the city boy said, smiling.
“What’s your name?”
“They call me Loach.”
“That’s a stupid name,” JungHo said sternly. But they started walking together, nevertheless. Loach was good at weaving through the crowd moving in all different directions, without ever stopping or losing his way—just like his namesake animal.
“How much farther?” JungHo couldn’t help himself from asking.
“Just a little more,” was all Loach would say.
At first, JungHo tried to remember the turns they took, as to be able to retrace his steps back to the Great South Gate; but he eventually gave up, as knowing his location only in relation to that one place was pointless. Whether or not he stayed on track, he still didn’t know where anything was, and thus was essentially lost. The storefronts with their signs in Chinese characters, the whoosh of rickshaws, shouts of vendors, street performers, and even a streetcar threaded with an electric wire at the top and brimming with people crowded around him on all sides, exhausting his senses. To keep himself steady, he glued his eyes to Loach’s slender back and the arrowhead-shaped sweat mark spreading slowly from its center.
“Here we are.” Loach turned around and smirked, pointing forward.
“Hmm?”
They’d arrived at the edge of a canal—though it had nothing in common with the energetic, fresh streams around JungHo’s village at the foot of the mountains. The swampy, shallow rivulet flowed about five yards below street level, its pebbled banks on either side lined with a levee of rocks and cement. Loach was pointing at a stone bridge just ahead, groaning under a heap of carts and pedestrians.
“What’s this, stupid?” JungHo asked, not bothering to hide his frustration. “You said there would be water.”
“It’s under the bridge,” Loach said, not missing a beat.
“That muddy water? You think I’m a dog?”
“Don’t get so fiery all the time, it’s fucking hot as it is. I live under the bridge,” Loach responded. Then without waiting for more retorts, he said, “Either you follow me or just go back wherever you came from, country bumpkin.” He crouched down, put his palms at the edge of the levee, then lightly swung his legs over the ledge and dropped down. JungHo hurried over and leaned out; Loach was already straightening himself up and dusting off his hands.
“Son of a bitch,” JungHo whispered to himself, before dropping off the ledge.
“What took you so long? Not so brave now, are we?” Loach teased. “We’re almost there.”
Contrary to JungHo’s hopes, the presence of water did nothing to cool the air as they walked together to the bridge. As they got closer, JungHo noticed a cluster of trash, which turned out to be makeshift tents. Several boys their age were sitting on large rocks nearby, talking among themselves, and then stood up to greet Loach. They were the kind of dirty that makes one’s skin crawl and scalp itch just from looking.
JungHo tried to hide his unease as they made their way to the tents. The worst thing he could do at this point was to run away. He wouldn’t make it up the levee, and they would swarm him in an instant. But if they thought he wasn’t intimidated, he might still be fine.
“Who is this, Loach?” one of the boys asked. He was the tallest among them, and had the distinction of being the only one with a smattering of gray fuzz over his upper lip.