Night Wanderer

The call from the Concession Police Station came just as Sheng Qingrang and Commissioner Yu were descending from the seventh floor of the Weida Hotel.

In the dimly lit elevator, Sheng Qingrang handed the approved document to Commissioner Yu: "The rest is in your hands, Brother Yu."

Commissioner Yu took the document, glanced at the words "Approved" stamped on it, and scoffed in dissatisfaction. "Ten seconds to read the entire document, another ten to sign and stamp it—yet we had to wait seven full hours for those twenty seconds! And he had to finish his afternoon nap before he could be bothered to handle it! This is wartime—who allows such leisure?!"

As the elevator doors opened, Commissioner Yu angrily stuffed the document into his bag and strode out. Sheng Qingrang was about to follow when the hotel front desk called out to him: "Mr. Sheng, the Concession Police Station just called. They’ve located the Ford car with license plate number 1412."

Sheng Qingrang immediately turned back to the front desk, picked up the phone, and dialed back, asking for the car’s location and details.

The person on the other end relayed the car’s parked position before adding, "The vehicle has been nearly destroyed by refugees—out of fuel, and no one was inside."

Outside, the sky darkened rapidly as a fine drizzle began to fall silently. Hanging up, Sheng Qingrang bid Commissioner Yu a hurried farewell and anxiously left the Weida Hotel, heading straight for the southern Chinese district.

Passing through the exit of the International Settlement, he saw that the crowd of refugees outside the iron gates had mostly dispersed, leaving only small groups huddled together—perhaps discussing plans or simply with nowhere else to go. Under the dimming twilight, police officers stood guard with guns, their exhausted faces still tense with vigilance, wary of anyone attempting to climb over the gates.

About a hundred meters from the gates, Sheng Qingrang found the wrecked car.

Whether out of resentment toward the wealthy or simply frustration at being barred from the Settlement, the refugees had destroyed the car beyond recognition. Shattered glass littered the ground, and faint traces of blood were visible.

His heart clenched painfully. Just then, a police officer jogged over and said, "Mr. Sheng, the car was already like this when we found it." Glancing at the bloodstains, the officer wisely fell silent.

It was impossible to tell whether the occupants had abandoned the car after being attacked or if the car had been destroyed after being abandoned. Either scenario was grim—if the former, it meant Zong Ying might be injured; if the latter, in this vast Chinese district where hundreds of thousands were fleeing for their lives, where could she possibly go?

The rain grew heavier, the summer typhoon bringing an unexpected chill.

As Sheng Qingrang listened to the officer recount the day’s events, he quickened his pace toward the police station. At this point, the only option was to leverage his connections with the Municipal Council and ask for their help in locating Zong Ying.

Over the phone, he described Zong Ying’s appearance and clothing, managing only to list: "white short sleeves, black trousers, gray sneakers with a letter printed on the side, possibly carrying medical supplies." When the person on the other end gave a vague acknowledgment, he regretted not keeping a photograph of her.

Finally, the voice offered some consolation: "Attorney Sheng, if anyone matching that description tries to enter the Settlement, we’ll detain them and notify you. Please don’t worry."

Sheng Qingrang thanked them before remembering—he still needed to deliver the medical kit to the Sheng residence.The sky finally darkened from deep blue to pitch black, the wretched weather unworthy of a clear moonlight.

Inside an abandoned house, Zong Ying knelt on the ground, assisting a woman in labor, sweat beading on her forehead. The lone candle was nearly burnt out.

Occasional groans of pain echoed in the room as a child of about eight or nine crouched nearby, waiting in silence—

He was the boy who had grabbed Zong Ying in the crowd.

Back then, he had seemed to exhaust all his strength, pleading desperately to her, his voice hoarse: "Save my mother… please save my mother…"

Zong Ying had first felt his grip, then heard his voice, and only then seen his face—a young face contorted with pain in the crowd, streaked with tears.

Beside him, the woman’s waters had broken, her trousers soaked through, her strength clearly failing, yet she was in the throes of labor.

He kept crying for help, his voice growing hoarse, his eyes filled with a mix of hysterical determination and despair—he knew the danger his mother was in, and he couldn’t bear to lose her.

Some decisions were made on instinct. In an instant, Zong Ying struggled to turn and shield them, pushing against the crowd.

The path ahead was hopeless, retreat equally difficult. Fortunately, the gates had been shut, and the crowd showed no signs of surging forward violently. Though progress was slow and agonizing, it was at least safe.

By the time they finally broke free from the crowd, Zong Ying’s back was drenched, her legs trembling.

Most shops along the way were closed, let alone finding a clinic to take shelter. The woman in labor was too weak to go on, leaving them no choice but to seek refuge in an abandoned house.

The interior had been stripped bare, far from clean or tidy, but there was no alternative.

Fully dilated, the second stage of labor was long and excruciating. By the time the baby arrived, night had fallen, the delayed cries weak and far from robust. Just as feeble was the mother, waiting for the placenta to be delivered.

The single candle had burned down to a stub. The waiting boy took off his own shirt and handed it to Zong Ying, whispering cautiously, "For the baby to wear."

Zong Ying wrapped the newborn and passed him over. For a moment, the room was quiet—but there was no joy.

Outside, the wind battered the broken windows, and the distant rumble of artillery from the warzone could faintly be heard.

After waiting for over half an hour, the placenta still wouldn’t fully detach. Zong Ying’s hands hovered in the air, her latex gloves smeared with contaminated blood—there was nothing she could do.

The incomplete placental separation meant only blood continued to flow under the dim light.

The boy, cradling his brother, looked up at Zong Ying, but she pressed her lips together, silent.

The conditions here were worse than any hospital in the concession—her medicine wasn’t the right kind, there was no gauze, no syringes, no disinfectant, not even clean water… nothing.

Utterly helpless.

The mother’s face grew paler, cold sweat trickling down her temples. Her blood pressure dropped, her pulse weakening. She murmured a name, her words already slurred.

The boy turned to look at her, his eyes brimming with tears. Zong Ying met his gaze, a crushing sense of powerlessness washing over her.

Kneeling on the ground, the warm, sticky blood pooled around her knees, soaking through her thin trousers, clinging to her skin.

Suddenly, the mother lifted her hand with effort, as if trying to grasp something.Zong Ying stood up, wanting to make one last effort, but after rummaging through the bag for a long time, she still found nothing.

The futility of it made the muscles in her back tense up. Suddenly, someone grabbed the hem of her pants from behind.

Zong Ying turned to look. The mother was breathing weakly, her fingers clutching desperately at the pant leg—the one that could never be washed completely clean.

The air was thick with the frustration of helplessness and the increasingly oppressive scent of blood. Tears and sweat were indistinguishable on the mother’s face. With the last of her strength, she looked at Zong Ying, her eyes filled only with exhausted pain. When she opened her mouth, only fragmented words came out. As she spoke, she glanced at the newborn in the little boy’s arms—her gaze full of reluctance and resignation.

Zong Ying pressed her lips together tightly, but then she felt the grip on her pant leg suddenly loosen. The hand dropped, and the newborn’s cries abruptly pierced the air.

The candle also went out.

In the darkness, Zong Ying peeled off her blood-stained latex gloves and bent down to pick up the wailing infant.

At ten o’clock in the evening, the rain had stopped and the wind had died down. Sheng Qingrang sat on the sofa in Zong Ying’s apartment, staring at a photo of her on the coffee table, his heart tangled in frustration and anxiety.

Suddenly, the phone rang. He froze for a moment before standing up to answer it.

The voice on the other end immediately said, “Zong Ying? I’ve been calling your cell, but no one picked up, so I took the liberty of calling your landline.”

Sheng Qingrang didn’t respond. The caller continued, “We had originally scheduled a detailed discussion for Wednesday, but something urgent came up on my end, so I might not be able to make it. I’m really sorry. Could we reschedule? How about Saturday?”

When there was still no response from the other end, the caller finally realized something was off and quickly said, “Hello?” before asking, “Is this Zong Ying?”

Sheng Qingrang snapped out of his thoughts. “Sorry, I’m not Zong Ying, but I can pass along a message for her. May I ask who’s calling?”

The caller paused briefly before replying, “This is Zhang, the lawyer friend handling her estate matters. I’d like to move our discussion from Wednesday to Saturday afternoon. Please make sure she gets back to me—just relay that to her.”

Sheng Qingrang frowned and cautiously asked, “Estate matters?”

“Yes,” Lawyer Zhang replied, clearly unaware—or unconcerned—about confidentiality. “It seems she needs to draft a will.”

Just as Sheng Qingrang was about to press for more details, the other end hung up.

The abrupt dial tone filled the apartment, restoring a dreadful silence. Sheng Qingrang picked up the photo in his hand and pressed his lips together even tighter, his worry deepening.

In such dire circumstances, every second felt like an eternity.

When the outside world brightened slightly, Zong Ying stepped out, carrying the hungry infant in her arms, followed by a half-grown child with eyes red from crying.

The streets were sparsely populated, a far cry from the bustling scenes of the day. Refugees lay haphazardly outside the entrance of the concession, while night-shift patrolmen carrying gas lamps paced inside the gates. They glanced at Zong Ying—disheveled and with two children in tow—but after a second look, they paid her no further attention.

Zong Ying turned and walked back. The Chinese district at this moment could only be described as desolate. No shops were open, and the two dollars left in her pocket were utterly useless.

The infant in her arms, exhausted from crying, had fallen into a deep sleep. But peaceful slumber was only temporary. Without timely nourishment, his hard-fought arrival into this blood-soaked world would still offer him no chance of survival.At that moment, a military green jeep suddenly came speeding down the street from the opposite end and screeched to a halt about a hundred meters from the concession entrance. Two Nationalist soldiers jumped out, followed by a young officer emerging from the passenger seat, apparently there to inspect the fortifications.

Zong Ying stopped several meters away and watched as the officer, having completed his inspection, strode briskly back toward the jeep.

In the dim morning light, he removed his military cap and lit a cigarette with a furrowed brow.

Zong Ying recognized him—

The young man in military uniform from the family portrait in the Sheng household.

Author's note:

Prolonged third stage of labor can easily lead to severe hemorrhage.