Last night at a barbecue stall, I ordered a skewer of grilled chives. The owner, grilling and sighing, said it was his last night of business. I didn’t say anything. He sprinkled a pinch of chili powder over the chives and mumbled to himself, “Since you all use vouchers now, I’ll charge you 3.5 yuan—3.5, for this order.” What he didn’t finish saying was that 3.5 yuan still wasn’t enough to buy a bundle of fresh chives from the grocery store next door. He picked up the charred chili and didn’t eat it—he just set it on the edge of the plate. When he left, he moved the stall under the streetlamp. There was no power, but the light was bright enough to see the last digit of the payment code, folded inward—drawn by his son. Next to it, crookedly scrawled, was a line of text: “Dad’s chives aren’t grilled all the way yet.”