When the Xianyu notification chimed, Shu Li was stuffing her tablet into her canvas tote.
Night had already fallen. Beyond the windowed corridor stretching across the second floor of the library, the sky was a murky gray, visibility low.
Shu Li’s tablet was the same color, also bought secondhand from the “seafood market”—an Air 5. It wasn’t a color she particularly liked, but after putting on a new screen protector and carefully wiping it down with disinfectant wipes, its glossy case concealed everything well enough that it looked no different from one freshly unboxed at an authorized store.
She slung the canvas bag over her left shoulder, unlocked her phone, and checked the message. It was an inquiry from a local buyer named Avis:
Do you offer in-home dog walking?
Shu Li immediately typed back: Yes.
Then, straight to the point: Where do you live?
Yunting Residence.
An unfamiliar development. Shu Li had never received an order from that neighborhood before. She opened Amap and searched for it. The location popped up—and, just as its name suggested, it looked upscale.
It was right beside Mirror Lake, probably only a few minutes’ walk from the shore. It wasn’t far from Shu Li’s home either: three metro stops, no transfers needed.
As she headed toward the elevator, she typed with her head lowered: I can take the job.
Then she asked: What kind of dog is it?
Different breeds meant different rates.
In-home dog walking was nothing like feeding cats. Most cats were small; the affectionate ones were gentle and easy to handle, while the skittish ones wouldn’t pick fights either. They would simply keep their distance, or hide somewhere dark and watch you from afar.
Dogs were another matter altogether. An enthusiastic large dog could be the canine equivalent of a heavyweight weapon, while toy poodles and Pomeranians were highly flammable and explosive—capable of barking furiously from beginning to end even with a full bowl of food in front of them. There were also two types Shu Li refused outright: aggressive breeds and beagles.
She added a reminder: There are some breeds I don’t accept. The details are listed on my page.
The buyer replied: Just an ordinary dog.
Shu Li wanted to ask if he meant a mutt, but professional etiquette made her phrase it more elegantly: A Chinese village dog?
I think so.
There was no signal in the elevator. Only after she stepped outside on the first floor did the photo in the chat finally load.
Shu Li enlarged it. It was, without question, a local mixed-breed dog. Not very large, with reddish-brown fur. Its face resembled the “scruffy little dog” that had become popular online in recent years, though this one had clearly been carefully cleaned and groomed. No stray fur covered its face. Its eyes were bright and alert, carrying both the clear innocence and honest good nature of a creature untouched by the world.
It didn’t look too difficult to deal with.
Shu Li classified it as an acceptable job and replied: How many walks does it need a day?
The other person, however, seemed like a complete novice and tossed the question back at her: How many would be best?
Shu Li paused, finding that odd. Is this your dog?
He answered: I found it not long ago.
So it was a stray he had taken in.
Seeing that he was a conscientious, kindhearted person, Shu Li let go of her remaining doubts and gave him a specific quote: Ninety yuan a day. I can come twice, once in the morning and once in the evening—around nine and five, and I’ll try to be punctual. Each visit will be about half an hour. Does that work for you? If anything unexpected comes up, I’ll let you know in advance.
The buyer replied: Okay.
Shu Li sent him the listing link. Order this one, and I’ll adjust the price on my end.
The default price on all the listings on her homepage was the starting rate for in-home cat feeding—thirty yuan, in line with most pet-care services on the platform and not disruptive to the market.
The buyer named Avis placed the order at once. What caught Shu Li off guard was that he did not give her the chance to change the price.
The buyer wasn’t just decisive—he was generous, too. He placed an order for forty-five visits straight away, the equivalent of booking a full half month of service in one go.
Shu Li paused at the entrance steps of the library and made sure she hadn’t misunderstood: Was he going away for half a month?
She glanced at the calendar. It was already the seventh day of the Lunar New Year. Even if he’d gone home for the holiday or taken a trip, he should reasonably have returned by now.
But perhaps he was a student, not due back at school until after the Lantern Festival. Or perhaps he was self-employed, free to take as much time off as he pleased.
…Self-employed.
Wasn’t that exactly the kind of life she envied most at this stage? And he lived in a place as blessed by nature as Mirror Lake, too. Shu Li let out a quiet breath and lowered her head to read the buyer’s reply again.
The wealthy client was sparing with words: *Mm.*
Shu Li replied, “Okay,” then asked: Starting tomorrow?
Once again: *Mm.*
Shu Li sent an OK emoji.
To make communication easier, Shu Li asked him for his WeChat. His WeChat name was the same as his Xianyu username—and just as mysterious. There wasn’t a single post visible in his six-month WeChat Moments feed. His Xianyu profile and listings were equally blank. After getting his exact building and apartment number, Shu Li prepared to make a note for the pet owner, as she always did, and asked for details about the dog: What’s your dog’s name?
Knowing the pet’s name in advance was a standard part of the process. It made it easier to bond with the animal once she arrived.
The owner replied: Haven’t named it.
Shu Li froze for a moment. Then what should I call it when I get there?
The other party seemed to consider this for a while before answering: Whatever you want.
Shu Li: “...?”
She didn’t ask any further questions. She simply replied: OK.
—
At 6:02 p.m., Shu Li arrived home right on time. Her mother was still blissfully absorbed at the mahjong table, too engrossed to eat or sleep. Her father had thrown together a pot of noodles, served with water spinach and cured ham. It was passable enough.
After slurping down a whole bowl, Shu Li resumed her usual role as dishwasher. Her father slid shut the glass door to the balcony to smoke, but the secondhand smoke still seeped in through every crack. Shu Li held it in, held her breath, and said nothing.
As she wiped away the splattered grease stains on the stovetop, Mr. Shu Wenyuan had already finished satisfying his craving and returned indoors. He asked his daughter whether she had checked the messages in the group chat.
Shu Li had seen them, but pretended she hadn’t. “I haven’t had time yet,” she said casually.
It was bound to be another barrage of WeChat short videos. You could tell what they were about from the titles alone: career planning, civil service exams, graduate school applications—more of the same. She was sick of seeing them.
Besides, none of that was what she wanted in the first place.
Her father seemed pleased. “Looks like you were really focused on studying today.”
Shu Li silently supplied the rest: *I was. I spent the whole afternoon drawing.*
Back in college, Shu Li loved making little illustrations. Her style wasn’t elaborate, much less technically showy, but it was charming, distinctive, and cute. She had gradually built up a following on Xiaohongshu for her profile pictures and wallpapers. As her popularity grew, she began earning some extra money through non-exclusive licensing collaborations. It wasn’t a fortune, but it noticeably improved her quality of life. During the first semester of her senior year, she and her classmates completed a teaching placement at a local high school. Those three months cemented her determination to create her own stationery and creative-goods brand.
Her parents knew none of this. They still believed that every day, when she left early and came home late, she was studying in the library and laying the groundwork for civil service exams.
Of course, Shu Li didn’t dare let them find out even a hint of the truth. After being eliminated in the second-round interview for graduate school, she had shut herself away at home in remorse and vowed to try again for civil service and public-sector positions, determined to wipe away the humiliation.
Every bit of that had been an act.
In fact, being out from under her parents’ watchful eyes made it easier for her to lay the groundwork for her dreams.
After cleaning up the kitchen, Shu Li returned to her bedroom, dumped all the civil-service exam prep books from her canvas bag onto the desk, and spread them out. She stared at the practice questions for a moment, then put on her headphones, one earbud at a time, twirled a pen as she read the questions, and began filling in A, B, C, or D—maintaining that exact posture throughout.
Sure enough, barely ten minutes later, her mother quietly cracked open the bedroom door, poked her head in, and asked whether Shu Li wanted some mangosteen. She also proudly showed off the small winnings she’d made that day.
Shu Li congratulated her, then shook her head and said no. Her mother had no choice but to leave dejectedly.
Only then did Shu Li pull out the phone she had tucked beneath the title page and reply to her part-time clients one by one. The Spring Festival season was busy, and she never lacked for work, though it did interfere somewhat with her main priorities. After dealing with the more pressing issues of two little charges left at home alone—a tabby cat plush toy ruined by diarrhea, and a corgi that had chewed through the baseboards—Shu Li remembered that she still hadn’t asked the owner of the little village dog how she was supposed to get in. He lived in a fairly upscale complex; she had no idea whether there would be access controls.
She sent him a private message: You there?
The dog owner did not reply immediately. She waited until nearly midnight before the other side finally stirred.
Get the elevator card from the guard.
He then sent her a six-digit number and told her it was the door code.
Got it, Shu Li replied.
He promptly vanished again.
Shu Li’s feelings were complicated. On the one hand, she liked clients who were straightforward and didn’t waste words. On the other, it had been a long time since she’d gone through such an impersonal communication process.
She looked at his murky, inscrutable profile picture and couldn’t help thinking of the view from the library window at dusk.
The next day, she set out on time. This Spring Festival, Hangzhou was like a lover past the honeymoon phase—temperamental and impossible to predict. Yesterday had been all fine rain and tears; this morning, the sky was brilliantly clear.
Shu Li checked the essentials in her cloth bag: disposable gloves, shoe covers, miniature trash bags, travel wipes, and alcohol spray. Finally, she added her thermos, filled with drip coffee.
Aside from screening by dog breed, Shu Li had three other rules for accepting jobs. First, she would not take clients whose homes lacked security cameras, in case of disputes over belongings. Second, she would not take jobs that were too close or too far away: too close, and she might run into her parents’ acquaintances; too far, and the commute would eat up too much time. Finally, she would not take households with more than two cats or more than one dog, for the same reason. She had to keep her priorities straight and save more energy for writing deadlines and design work.
After scanning into the subway station, she messaged the owner of the village dog in advance: I’m on my way.
There was no reply.
Shu Li glanced at the time in the upper-left corner of her screen: 8:23.
Yunting Residence was in a prime location, beside Mirror Lake and close to a subway station. It took her only about fifteen minutes to collect the elevator card from the security guard. After asking for the exact location of Building Three, Shu Li headed straight in.
The complex felt like a world apart. There were no voices to be heard, only birdsong. The landscaping was arranged with the care of a classical garden, and even the elevator walls were spotless, like full-length bronze mirrors reflecting her entire figure.
Shu Li looked at herself and raised a hand to smooth the bangs the wind had mussed.
Each floor had only one apartment. Directly opposite the elevator was the dog owner’s residence. A plaque bearing the number 1602 was set into the dark brown doorframe. The spacious elevator lobby was utterly bare—not a single stray item in sight.
Shu Li couldn’t help thinking what a waste it was not to use all that storage space for a shoe cabinet.
Then she thought again: It was Lunar New Year, yet there weren’t even any Spring Festival couplets on the door.
True enough, the door was spotlessly bare. Shu Li opened her notes app and entered the numbers one by one for comparison. The keypad even played musical tones—do, re, mi, fa, sol—clear and lilting.
After checking it once more, Shu Li pressed the pound key. With a beep, the door unlocked. She had only pulled it open a crack when hurried footsteps sounded from inside.
