My IQ Increases Year by Year

March, 2000.

The Waking of Insects had just passed, and the southern mornings still carried a damp, biting chill.

The sky had yet to fully brighten. The streetlights flickered, and occasionally, the SHUSH-SHUSH of an early-rising sanitation worker’s broom could be heard.

"HUFF... PUFF..."

Chen Zhuo felt as though someone had shoved a handful of burning coals into his lungs. Every breath seared his throat.

He was wearing a dark blue school tracksuit that his dear mother, Liu Xiuying, had intentionally bought one size too big. The sleeves were rolled up twice, making him look even smaller and thinner.

His steps were heavy, as if he were dragging two lead balls.

Sweat trickled from his forehead into his eyes, stinging painfully, but he didn’t even have the strength to lift a hand to wipe it away.

"Still got any gas in the tank?"

A steady voice came from beside him.

Chen Jianguo, clad in a faded gray tank top with a towel draped around his neck, ran effortlessly on Chen Zhuo’s outer side.

"N-No... I’m spent..."

Chen Zhuo wheezed, his voice as faint as a mosquito’s buzz.

"If you’re spent, then grit your teeth and push through."

Chen Jianguo slowed his pace and gave Chen Zhuo a gentle push on the back. It wasn’t too hard, nor too soft—just enough to give him a bit of forward momentum.

"We’ve barely gotten started. We just passed Hongqi Intersection. We’re still a kilometer from home."

Chen Zhuo looked up at the road ahead, which seemed to stretch on endlessly.

In the morning mist, the distant buildings were faint, blurry shapes.

For a seven-year-old boy, three kilometers was a very long way.

Any other kid would have probably plopped down on the ground by now, throwing a tantrum and demanding to be carried.

Chen Zhuo wanted to sit down, too.

But he glanced at his father beside him.

Chen Jianguo ran with a steady pace and even breaths. His face, which usually bore faint black smudges of machine oil, was now flushed with a healthy red glow from the exercise.

He kept glancing back to check for cars, carefully shielding Chen Zhuo on the inner side of the sidewalk.

"Dad."

Chen Zhuo swallowed. His throat was bone dry.

"My legs hurt."

"They always hurt when you’re just starting. It’ll get better once you run through it."

Chen Jianguo didn’t stop. Instead, he deliberately picked up his pace for a couple of steps.

"See that fried dough stick stall up ahead? The one under the utility pole."

Chen Zhuo squinted, trying to see.

Under a dim yellow light, a large wok of oil was steaming. The owner was using long chopsticks to turn golden-brown dough sticks, and their fragrance drifted over on the breeze.

"Smell that?"

Chen Jianguo turned back and grinned at his son.

"Smells amazing."

Chen Zhuo’s stomach let out an embarrassing grumble.

"Make it there, and the two of us will each get a bowl of beef noodles. With an extra egg and extra meat."

Chen Jianguo dangled the bait.

"Only if you run all the way there. If you can’t make it, it’s just congee back home."

Chen Zhuo pursed his lips.

’What’s so good about congee? It’s not filling. It goes right through you.’

He wanted meat.

That primal, simple desire instantly overpowered the ache in his legs.

"Run!"

Chen Zhuo let out a low roar. Though his voice was still childish, his steps were now noticeably wider.

He stopped thinking about the distance or how much longer he had to run.

His eyes were fixed only on the steaming breakfast stall ahead, and on the father in the tank top who kept looking back for him.

One step, two steps.

The streetlights stretched the father and son’s shadows long, sometimes overlapping, sometimes separating.

They passed an early-rising acquaintance, an old man out walking his bird.

"Hey, Jianguo! Taking your son out for a run?"

"That’s right, Uncle! The kid’s a bit frail, so I’m getting him to train. A slow bird has to start flying early, right?"

Chen Jianguo’s reply was full of vigor, his face beaming with pride.

Hearing this, the corners of Chen Zhuo’s mouth turned up slightly.

’A slow bird has to start flying early.’

’That’s fine by me.’

’If you’re a slow flyer, you just have to wake up earlier. If you’re weak, you just have to run a few extra steps.’

’Besides, with Dad leading the way, there was no fear of getting lost.’

Finally, the fragrance of fried dough sticks and braised beef grew stronger and stronger, so thick it could practically lift a person off the ground.

"We’re here!"

Chen Jianguo slapped Chen Zhuo on the shoulder.

"We made it! Don’t stop suddenly. Walk it off for a bit, cool down!"

Chen Zhuo gasped for air, hands on his knees, feeling like his heart was about to leap out of his throat.

The father and son stood before the noodle stall, panting heavily. Steam rose from their bodies, making them look like two steamed buns fresh from the basket.

"Boss! Two bowls of beef noodles! Large ones!"

Chen Jianguo slapped two crumpled banknotes on the counter with a flourish.

"Give the kid an extra portion of meat in his bowl! And two braised eggs!"

"You got it! Out exercising with your son again, Brother Jianguo!"

The owner skillfully scooped the noodles, blanched the vegetables, and poured the broth.

Chen Zhuo stared at the steaming bowl before him, piled high with chunks of red-braised beef. Suddenly, the three-kilometer run didn’t seem so bad after all.

"Eat!"

Chen Jianguo shoved a pair of chopsticks into his hand and then picked out several pieces of meat from his own bowl and gave them to him.

"Eat up. You need to eat your fill to grow tall."

Chen Zhuo looked at the small mountain of meat in his bowl, then looked up at his father, who was slurping his noodles loudly, his forehead beaded with sweat.

The morning light pierced through the thin mist, casting a warm glow on the father and son.

"Dad."

"Hm?"

Chen Jianguo answered indistinctly, his mouth full of noodles.

"It’s delicious."

"Of course it is! Now eat up!"

That morning, seven-year-old Chen Zhuo devoured the entire large bowl of beef noodles, drinking even the last drop of broth.