Chapter 12: The Legendary Meal

Anderson handed Liu Heming the shotgun and asked, “Never fired one before, have you?”

Liu Heming nodded honestly. He’d shot a few rounds during military training, but that gun wasn’t anything like this shotgun.

Anderson grabbed another handful of shells from under the counter and placed them down. “Here, take a few more bullets. Go practice out back with George. Wouldn’t want you hurting yourself.”

“Thank you, Anderson. Once things settle down at the ranch, I’ll make a point to visit your shop more often,” Liu Heming said gratefully.

Even though Anderson was notoriously stingy, this handful of shells wasn’t cheap. It was no small gesture.

Out at the simple shooting range behind the shop, George loaded two shells and handed the shotgun to Liu Heming. “Like this, Dexter. This one holds five rounds. Be extra careful when firing—it scatters wide, so keep it far away from people.”

“Dexter, is it really safe to just fire like this?” Liu Heming asked, surprised.

He’d seen proper ranges on TV. Even considering this was just a small shop, this was far too bare-bones. It was literally an empty backyard with a paper target nailed to a wooden wall.

George shrugged. “Why not? It’s deserted out here. You could pump out shots all day, and no one would bat an eye.”

Convinced by George’s solid logic, Liu Heming racked a shell. The distinctive clack seemed to quicken his heartbeat.

What guy wouldn’t be drawn to a gun? Even an old gun like this could be called the king of close-quarters.

BANG!

After the blast, Liu Heming rubbed his chest, grimacing. He’d underestimated the kick—the butt had rocked back hard. Yet his eyes widened at what the shot had done: the target paper was riddled with tiny holes, some straying way off to the side.

“See what I mean? Safety first. Even at home, don’t keep shells loaded. An accidental discharge is no joke,” George cautioned, clapping his shoulder.

Liu Heming nodded, then blasted the remaining five shells. Just five shots, but they filled him with genuine thrill.

“Don’t take Anderson’s manner personally,” George said later, handing Liu Heming a cigarette. “He used to be friendlier. Five years back, his son’s family got in a wreck. Only the little girl got lucky—a scrape. The grown-ups didn’t make it. That’s what changed him.”

“Haven’t seen him crack a smile since. He blamed himself entirely. His son had actually been inviting him to move away from here.”

“I had no idea,” murmured Liu Heming. “That poor guy. What about the child now?”

“Rebecca’s doing him proud,” George grinned. “Got into the University of Montana on a full scholarship. Anderson lives for her nowadays.”

“When time allows, I’ll round up the locals for a small welcome gathering. It’s our tradition in Xiangshui Town. Though… well, the town’s faded, and everyone’s pretty spread out now.”

“Thanks, George,” Liu Heming smiled back. “Soon as I get things sorted here at the ranch, I’ll invite folks over. Show some Chinese food. It might not be Michelin-starred, but it’ll be something different.”

George was solid, good-hearted. Whether they actually threw him a party wasn’t what mattered—George spoke for Xiangshui Town now, and that meant acceptance.

Wherever you go to build a life, blending matters. Fight it, and struggle chases you relentlessly.

At least now he had two locals he could count on: good-natured Town Mayor George… and grumpy-but-kind Anderson. A good start, by any measure.

His gun permit was the lowest tier, and applying was a breeze. By the time he followed George back inside, Anderson already had it ready.

Back home, Liu Heming eagerly unboxed the shotgun again, running his hands over it. Pure treasure. He placed it by his bed—tonight, for the first time, he’d sleep easy.

With the new pots and pans, he could finally cook something hot tonight. After brief thought, he settled on a menu fit for legends: instant noodles.

It was the best he could do. Money was tight, and with future needs looming, he couldn’t splurge. Lunch had been luxurious enough already—dinner required restraint.

Instant noodles were dirt cheap here—less than ten bucks got him a case of forty-eight packs. That broke down to about one Chinese Yuan per bag, give or take. (Though he passed on the pricier brands.)

Why call them “legendary”? Simple. In college, he’d practically eaten every flavor from back home. Twice.

Two packets went into the pot with two eggs. He ladled out a massive bowl, then popped open a tin of lunch meat. In his mind, that counted as a feast.

His first bite of the lunch meat had him gagging slightly. Americans sure loved salt—that stuff was loaded. Thank goodness he’d held back seasoning the noodles, or dinner would’ve been ruined.

Still, maybe it was for the best. With no fridge at home, salty meant longer shelf life. Once things stabilized, he’d head to nearby Walker Town and see about some used appliances.

True to legend, the meal got him pumped. Ravenous, he devoured it all—broth included. Despite its saltiness, the lunch meat didn’t stand a chance—half the tin vanished.

BURP!

He let out a contented sigh, wiping beads of sweat off his forehead. “Ah… sweet, simple bliss. Nothing beats instant noodles, eh?”

It absolutely trumped gnawing on bread washed down with milk. That routine got unbearable fast if repeated daily.

A tiny hollow spot lingered, though… So he gave in to temptation, popping open a fruit can. Two minutes later, that was history too.

Admittedly, American canned fruit hit the spot. Only gripe? Portions were skimpy. Barely a snack. Once flush with cash, he vowed, he’d buy crates of it and eat his fill.

Rubbing his taut stomach, he painted a blissfully satisfying little vision of the future.