We gaze at the starry sky until the world ends...

We'd probably been traveling through the dense forest for more than a month before reaching the bridge. When we left home in early June, the war hadn't yet reached the border. This was the news I heard from the back stairs of our house one night before the migration. That night, Will and I were catching insects under the eaves of the backyard, using lanterns. I held a glass jar for the insects, while Will, with the lantern and insect net, twisted and turned under the wooden porch. His fat body would often bump against the wood, making a dull thud, followed by a cry of pain. His voice, slightly childish, was completely out of place for his size, like a sparrow chirping from a penguin's mouth.

This courtyard was a perfect place for us to cool off on summer nights. Thick wooden planks, tightly packed together, formed the walls, standing like loyal sentinels around the courtyard. At the western corner stood a doghouse, also made of wood. My father's sheepdog, named Bobby, would nestle in it every day, half-peeking out of the semicircular opening, never tired of surveying his master's house and lawn. The wood for the veranda, fence, and doghouse was said to have come from the woodland outside the courtyard. There, tall trees stood as straight and solemn as marble columns in ancient ruins, and countless solemn trees, like senators sitting in a parliament, whispered to each other through their intertwined branches and leaves. Forty years ago, my grandfather led the men into the woodland, cleanly felling several trees, stripping away their rough coats with machetes and planes. Then, one by one, he sawed planks to build the fence, the doghouse, and the veranda outside the house. In the last glimmer of light before sunset, they sat in the courtyard, drinking beer and discussing the past of the empire and their future.

Although I haven't personally witnessed the scene of forty years ago, facing the quiet woodlands at night, I can imagine the traces of the hard work of those days left on this small yard. My grandfather's dog has long since died, and Bobby was bought by my father himself. I still remember that the moment he saw the doghouse, he quickly ran over and urinated, claiming it as his territory.

Bobby had occupied the doghouse for five years. Now, he was an old dog on his deathbed. I sat on the hallway floor, hugging the railing, my gaze fixed on the doghouse's entrance. It was pitch black in there, nothing could be seen clearly. The lantern's light only illuminated a small area around it. The light filtered through the cracks in the wood and met another beam of light down the hallway, where a bloated figure kept squirming. Given Will's size, it was hard to believe he could move in such a cramped space for so long. The glass jar in my hand was empty, and our time for play was running out.

"Will," I knocked on the board twice, and Will responded by pushing his broad back. I felt the board beneath my butt bend. "Go to the bushes and try. I don't want to go back empty-handed."

"Andrew, come help me!" He sounded like he'd just finished a marathon around town. The wood beneath me creaked and trembled, perhaps Will had rolled over. I looked down and saw two thick legs in white sneakers extending from beneath my legs, dangling through the railing.

"Fuck." I reluctantly put the glass jar down and tumbled down the porch. Will's hips pushed up a pile of dirt like a plow pulled by an ox, and the turf was completely ruined. "Can't you be a little more gentle?"

Will, exhausted, slumped in the hole he'd carved himself, leaning against the wooden pillar supporting the corridor and breathing heavily. The lantern tilted to its side, its dim light casting a mocking light on Will's large belly, where the insect net was draped. "You look like a drunken pregnant woman," I said, squatting down.

Placing my hands on his filthy, fat legs required immense courage and resolve. If he were thinner, perhaps I could have just grabbed his trouser legs and dragged him out. "Are you going to get scolded again tonight?" I smirked at him. Every inch of his face was slick with sweat. His hands were bracing themselves against the ground, his legs like freshly pulled radishes. My fingers touched the half-dried sweat stains on his trouser legs, and I felt sick.

I immediately let go of his hand when I saw his head pop out from under the wooden board. Back in the courtyard filled with fresh air, Will took a deep breath with a much more dramatic movement than before, as if he had said goodbye to breathing for eight hundred years. "You asked me to come in!" He almost fell back subconsciously, almost falling to the ground, but then sat up suddenly as if he remembered something. "What should I do? My mother will beat me to death!"

Will had reason to be afraid of his mother. Everyone in town knew the fierce Walker woman, who used a rolling pin on her son more often than she did on dough. I once thought that Will's latent violence might come from his mother. But who could blame him for being so stupid? I told him to look for bugs under the porch, not to plow the ground with his butt.

"Hurry up and find a solution!" He glared at me. His large hands, veins exposed, were clenched into fists, as if he were wearing boxing gloves.

"I'll help you dry your clothes later." I shrugged nonchalantly. "Pants too. You wash your clothes yourself."

"Fuck, fuck!" Will cursed, standing up and waving his fists in anger. A true Walker. The kids in this town all bear traces of their families: some are irritable, some are timid, and some seem to still retain the habits of the vagabonds who wandered around before settling here. When I was seven years old, flipping through the town history in my father's study, I discovered that after all these years, the ghosts of the pioneers still inhabited the houses they built. I felt a certain unspoken resentment about this (not towards my grandfather, of course), but there was nothing I could do about it. I could laugh at Will, but I couldn't ignore his fists.

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