The rain has stopped.
Chen Hao lay on the bed in the corner of the work shed, covered with a half-damp blanket, a hot resin patch pressed against his right arm. When he opened his eyes, it was already dawn, and a few rays of light shone through the hole in the roof onto the shelves piled with tools.
Nana stood by the bed, with the camera pointed directly at her.
"When the humidity drops below 60%, the reflectivity of the cucumber skin reaches the ripening standard," she said.
Chen Hao moved his neck, and his joints cracked. He sat up, bracing himself on the edge of the bed, his knees making a sound like a cookie breaking.
"Alive?" he asked. "Can you really eat it?"
"Data doesn't lie."
He didn't say anything more, and shuffled outside in his slippers. The ground outside was still soft; each step would sink half a centimeter. He walked to the edge of the field in section B, squatted down, and parted the vines and leaves.
A cucumber hangs on a vine, emerald green, with fine thorns, and cool to the touch.
He twisted it, took it off, held it up to his eyes for three seconds, and grinned.
"It's done."
He began to pick. His movements were slow at first, but then faster and faster. The resin bucket was soon half full, containing cucumbers, tomatoes, and a small handful of lettuce. As he picked, he would pop a lettuce leaf into his mouth, chew a few times, and swallow.
“It’s not spoiled,” he said.
Nana followed behind him, taking notes, the camera panning across each plant, marking its yield and health status.
On his third trip, he found a broken vine.
The leaves were half-eaten, the cuts were uneven, as if they had been bitten by something small. He looked in the direction of the marks and saw that the two rows of rapeseed hearts next to them were gone, leaving only bare stumps.
"Who did this?" He stood up and looked around.
No one answered.
He turned to look at Nana: "Are there more bugs?"
Nana had already crouched down, the camera close to the ground. She brought up a set of footprint projections, which flashed twice in the air.
“It walks on four legs, its tail drags on the ground, and it weighs about three kilograms,” she said. “It has forked toe marks on its front paws, which is consistent with the characteristics of squirrels. However, the weight-bearing distribution of its skeleton is abnormal, which indicates that it is a mutant individual.”
Chen Hao stared at the trail of afterimages for two seconds, then suddenly burst out laughing.
"Squirrel? The squirrel that steals vegetables? This thing can even evolve?"
"It has chosen high-nutrient targets and its behavior patterns are becoming more intelligent."
"Then he must be a cunning thief."
He scratched his head; his hair still smelled damp from last night's rain.
"We can't fight them, and even if we do, we won't get any meat. If we leave them alone, they'll just steal it... What should we do?"
Nana said, "This species prefers a mixture of oils and sugars. It can be guided to migrate using a remote feeding device."
"You mean you want to distract it by giving it food?"
"Efficiency is better than driving them away."
“Sure.” Chen Hao slapped his thigh. “Anyway, we have some surplus food now. Let’s share some with them so they won’t be thinking about my few vegetables every day.”
The two returned to the work shed to rummage through scrap materials.
Chen Hao pulled out an old timer from a pile of parts, Nana disassembled half of the conveyor belt, and scooped out a handful of grain residue from the kitchen cabinet, mixed with a little honey residue—the residue from the last beehive cleaning.
They built a small platform with a metal frame, installed a conveyor belt and containers, and connected batteries and a timer.
"Dispense one spoonful every two hours," Chen Hao adjusted the button. "That's enough to make it full."
Nana added, "The delivery point is located on the edge of the forest area, 100 meters away from farmland. At the same time, a sound barrier is set up to prevent it from turning back."
"It's done quite formally."
"Ecological management requires a systematic approach."
"You just love to use big words."
After assembling the machine, Chen Hao carried it to the edge of the woods and dug a hole to secure the base. On the way back, he picked a cucumber and ate it as he walked.
"What if it gets used to this food and starts coming to work every day?"
"The amount of product can be gradually reduced to decrease dependence."
That's called layoffs.
"It is essentially behavior modification."
"Anyway, it's up to you."
As the sun rose directly overhead, the feeder began its first feeding. Grains mixed with honeydew tumbled into the dish with a splash, and the bushes in the distance stirred slightly, but then remained still.
Chen Hao patted the dust off his hands: "Just wait, it will take effect tonight."
In the afternoon, he continued harvesting, collecting all the remaining vegetables. At the final count, there were three buckets of cucumbers, two buckets of tomatoes, and a small basket each of lettuce and bok choy hearts. He carried them into the work shed, laid them out on the long table, and counted them once, then again.
"Does this mean we've escaped poverty?"
Nana was calibrating the sensors without looking up: "Based on heat conversion, this harvest can support the normal consumption of two people for twelve days."
"That's much better than compressed biscuits."
"It is also rich in vitamin C and dietary fiber."
"It sounds healthy."
He bent down and rubbed his knees, then sat down to rest for a while. The wind outside was light, and the solar panels emitted a soft hum. The string lights flickered on and off, like a New Year's celebration.
At dinner time, he decided to cook a decent meal.
"Eat it immediately after picking," Nana suggested, "to minimize nutrient loss."
Chen Hao nodded, washed the cucumbers, tomatoes, and lettuce, and placed them on the cutting board to chop. His knife was dull, and the cuts were crooked, but he didn't care. After chopping, he poured them into a bowl, sprinkled some salt, and then poured in a spoonful of honey water—from wild bees, with a hint of floral fragrance.
I mixed it up and ladled it into a bowl.
He sat at a small table outside the shed, with Nana sitting opposite him. String lights were on overhead, casting long shadows on the ground.
He scooped up a spoonful and put it in his mouth.
The moment he bit into the cucumber, juice gushed out. Sweet, slightly salty, with a hint of earthiness. The tomato was so sour it made his eyes squint, and the lettuce crunched crisply.
He didn't say anything, and just kept eating.
After finishing one bowl, he got a second one.
When the third bowl was almost empty, he put down his spoon, leaned back in his chair, and let out a long sigh.
"I've traveled through time for so long," he said, "and for the first time, I feel... I'm still alive."
Nana looked at him, and the camera slightly adjusted its focus.
“Facial muscle activity increased, and pupil dilation rate rose by 18 percent,” she said. “Emotional feedback values reached their peak.”
"Can't you speak like a human being?"
What you're trying to say is: this meal helped you rediscover the feeling of life.
Chen Hao paused for two seconds, then smiled.
Yes. That's exactly what I mean.
He looked up at the sky. The clouds had dispersed, revealing a deep blue expanse, and a few stars had begun to twinkle.
"We still have to build the dam tomorrow," he said.
"The materials are ready."
"Then don't turn off your phone tonight."
"I am here."
He stood up, stretched, and his bones cracked all around him.
Turning back towards the shed, he held onto the doorframe and said, "Next time, plant more tomatoes. I like them sour."
Nana did not answer.
She was pulling up tomorrow's schedule, the cursor hovering over the "drainage ditch reinforcement" column.
A rustling sound came from the woods in the distance.
The feeding dish is empty.
The grain residue and honey residue were licked clean, leaving not even a crevic.
A small, grayish-brown animal crouched on the edge of the plate, its tail curled up and its ears twitching.
It looked up toward the farmland, twitched its nose twice, and then turned and disappeared into the bushes.
Chen Hao took off his coat and hung it on a nail.
He pulled out his notebook, turned to a new page, and wrote: "First harvest complete. Quantity: three buckets of cucumbers, two buckets of tomatoes, and some leafy greens. Losses: two rows of rapeseed hearts, suspected to be eaten by squirrels. Countermeasure: Activate the automatic feeder, location—"
The pen tip paused.
He heard a rhythmic ticking sound outside.
It's not raining.
It was the sound of a metal tray being gently tapped.
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