3: Chapter 3 The "Instant Repair" Skill of the Dining Cart Table

The green-skinned train was slowly climbing a steep slope, its body tilting so severely that it felt as if it might topple over at any moment.

Inside the dining car, the metal shelves swayed violently with the rocking of the carriage, emitting a "clatter-clatter" sound, while cans and enamel mugs bounced on top, as if performing a chaotic dance.

Outside the window, the sun hung high, its rays as scorching as flames, illuminating the tracks until they shone like a strip of red-hot iron.

Beside the tracks, wild chrysanthemums wilted under the intense heat, their petals curling into little trumpet shapes.

Yet, even in such harsh conditions, a few black butterflies rested on the chrysanthemums, their wings baked translucent, appearing as though they might be scorched by the sunlight at any moment.

The blue cloth curtain of the dining car was lifted by a cross-breeze, which swept in a strong smell of coal smoke, interweaving with the scent of soy sauce wafting from the pots, congealing into a sticky odor in the stifling air.

This smell was somewhat suffocating, as if the entire space were filled with it.

The folding tabletop by the window shook the most violently, causing the grease embedded in its wood grain to flake off.

A man in overalls sat at the table, his elbows pressed tightly against the rim of his bowl, trying to steady the noodles inside.

However, despite his best efforts, the noodle broth streamed down the edge of the table, soaking his pant legs.

He couldn't help but hiss, sucking in a breath of cold air, his brows knitted tightly together, his Adam's apple bobbing as if he wanted to curse, yet he worried about frightening the child sitting next to him.

The middle-aged woman in the neighboring seat quickly pulled her grandson into her arms.

The lollipop in the child's hand left a bright yellow sugary streak on the tablecloth.

She looked up at the creaking ceiling fan—its blades were coated in a layer of black dust, and as it spun, it looked like it was dragging a dark cloud along.

Greasy droplets carried by the breeze splattered onto her face; she wiped it subconsciously, and an oily streak instantly embedded itself into the wrinkles on her face.

"This broken table is more trouble than the drafty old bellows at my house!" the man finally couldn't take it anymore and cursed loudly.

His hands gripped the edge of the tabletop so tightly that his knuckles turned white, leaving deep red marks on the wood.

Just then, Chen Jie squeezed in from the narrow aisle.

As he passed the mop piled in the corner, his canvas tool bag accidentally brushed against the wet cloth strips, picking up some water stains.

Chen Jie crouched down, his knees hitting the metal floor with a dull "thud."

Sunlight from outside the window slanted in, landing right on his thick beard; the stubble cast tiny shadows under the illumination.

The thin calluses on the web of his hands, formed from long-term labor, shimmered with a faint luster in the light.

"This axle is rusted; it needs to be loosened." Chen Jie muttered to himself while pulling a small can of machine oil from his tool bag.

He carefully aimed the nozzle at the connecting axle, but just as he was about to drip the oil, the train suddenly rocked without warning.

However, Chen Jie's wrist remained as steady as if frozen by a spell, fixed firmly in mid-air.

Two drops of oil, as if precisely controlled by him, landed squarely into the axle eye, quickly spreading across the rust to form a small, dark oil stain.

This sequence of movements was as natural and fluid as flowing water, leaving people unable to help but marvel at it.

This scene happened to be caught by the child in the neighboring seat.

The child, who had originally been held tightly by the grandmother, suddenly broke free from her grasp.

Like a curious little monkey, he clung to the edge of the table, eyes wide, staring intently at the movements of Chen Jie's hands.

Because he was so focused, the lollipop in the child's mouth fell onto his lapel without him realizing it.

Seeing this, the grandmother nearby also hurriedly craned her neck, wanting to see what was happening.

Her reading glasses, perched on her nose, slid down to the tip due to her leaning forward, reflecting the emerald light of the terraced fields outside the window.

Chen Jie pulled out a small wrench, pinched the end with his fingertips, and gave it a gentle turn. There was a crisp "click," like biting into a hard candy.

The man in overalls straightened up abruptly, nearly knocking over his bowl, his previous irritation instantly replaced by surprise, his mouth agape wide enough to fit an egg.

A bamboo forest happened to pass by outside the train, the bamboo leaves rustling in the wind, which, mixed with the sounds of stir-frying from the dining car's kitchen, seemed to provide an accompaniment to that crisp sound.

He used tweezers to pick up a copper washer and set it onto the screw, his movements as steady as threading a needle.

Sunlight shone through the window glass onto the washer, reflecting a layer of warm light.

The child clapped his little hands and laughed: "It looks like a star!"

The grandmother laughed along, her eye wrinkles filled with light, repeatedly saying, "How capable!"

The man in overalls rubbed his hands together, a flush appearing on his dark face. He wanted to say something, but scratched his head as if shy, his fingertips rubbing back and forth along the edge of the tabletop.

Tightening the last turn of the screw, Chen Jie pressed down on the tabletop and patted it twice; the solid "thud-thud" sound drowned out the clattering of the train.

Egrets suddenly flew up from the rice paddies outside the window, their wingbeats as rhythmic as a metronome.

Chen Jie watched them sweep across the tracks and suddenly grinned—this tabletop was steady, even more reliable than that freezer Wang Lei had fixed.

Sister Li, the dining car attendant, came out carrying a tray, her apron stained with specks of cooking ash.

Just as she was about to complain that the tabletop was broken again, she caught sight of the steady surface and nearly dropped the tray in her hand.

"Oh my," she exclaimed, "It's fixed already? Old Master Zhang spent the whole morning taking it apart and said the axle had rusted through!"

She walked over, touched the tabletop, then looked at Chen Jie's oil-stained hands, and smiled until the corners of her mouth looked like a chrysanthemum.

Zhao Kai stood at the doorway, pinching his nose, his T-shirt wrinkled from sweat, his brows furrowed so tightly he could crush a mosquito.

"You turned fixing a table into an art form?" He glanced at Chen Jie, "If we don't leave now, the mountain mist will dissipate—your precious parts will get soaked by the dew."

When Chen Jie stood up, the train happened to emerge from a tunnel, and sunlight flooded the carriage, stretching his shadow long.

He touched the braised egg that had been slipped into his pocket at some point, rubbing his fingertips against the thin calluses on the web of his hands, where the warmth of the wrench still lingered, as if he were carrying a bundle of warm light.

The terraced fields outside the window shone with a brilliant green, and as the wind passed, it stirred up layers of ripples, as if someone had laid out a brand-new tablecloth for this journey.