The lunar calendar has hung from the courtyard pole since January. Lìxià falls on the fifth of May. Wei Lin knows because she looks at it twice a day. The distance between the twenty-third of April and the fifth of May is twelve days. The seven mu of sweet sorghum are not yet sown. Sweet sorghum planted later than lìxià plus seven days does not yield. She knows it, her mother-in-law knew it, her mother-in-law's mother knew it. The knowledge is family knowledge. It is also written on the Agricultural Bureau sheet Wei Lin has fixed to the wall beside the calendar.

The rural official Zhang arrives at twelve past ten. A grey Loncin motorbike. Forty-six years old, glasses with one arm mended with adhesive tape. He gets off the motorbike. He looks at Wei Lin, says ni hao. Wei Lin says ni hao.

Zhang explains. The agricultural subsidy for sweet sorghum and for maize is digitalised from this year. The app is called Huinongbao. It is downloaded from the QR code on the Bureau's new sheet. The account is created with the tax code number of the head of household. A farmer's QR code is generated. The QR is sent to Zhang on WeChat. Zhang registers it in the county system. The subsidy reaches the bank account of the head of household within twenty days. The head of this household is Liu Hongwei. Liu Hongwei is Wei Lin's husband.

Wei Lin asks whether she can register the QR in her own name. Zhang says no. To register another name you must go to the county Bureau, present the documents, wait for the file to be processed. Six months.

Wei Lin looks at the calendar. Twelve days to lìxià. Seventy-eight thousand yuan is what her husband earns in a year in the kitchens in Wenzhou, earned it in twenty twenty-one. Four thousand two hundred yuan is the subsidy. Little Liu Xiaoyu starts the sixth year of primary school in Zhengzhou in September. Three thousand yuan is the supplement the school asks for the children of migrants without Zhengzhou hukou.

Zhang says he will come back on Thursday. He rides off on the motorbike. Wei Lin stays in the courtyard.

Wei Lin goes into the house. The dresser is of dark wood with the sugar-paper veneer ruined at the right corner. She opens the first drawer. Inside are the documents, the family register, the hukou. She opens the second. Inside are Hongwei's wool socks. She opens the third. Inside is Hongwei's Huawei P9 phone. She takes it. She looks at it. It has been switched off for four years. The cover is pale blue, the battery is dead. Wei Lin plugs it into the Chinese charger of the Sansheng brand that is still in the socket beside the bed. The red light comes on. Wei Lin waits six minutes. She presses the button.

The phone comes on. Huawei logo. Black screen. Password request. Six digits. Wei Lin types: two zero zero eight zero nine zero one. The password is the date of the elder daughter's first day of school, the first of September two thousand and eight. Hongwei had chosen it himself. That was before he left.

The phone unlocks. It searches for a network. It vibrates. It finds a network. It vibrates again. The notifications arrive. Forty-four unread WeChat messages, six missed calls, eleven SMS, seven system updates. All dated between August twenty twenty-one and March twenty twenty-two. The WeChat group of the village workers in Wenzhou has eight hundred messages accumulated and then the silence of the switched-off phone. Hongwei has had another number for four years, on the new phone. He sends money three times a year through WeChat Pay. The old mother-in-law's pension comes from there.

Wei Lin downloads Huinongbao. She enters Hongwei's tax code number. The page asks for confirmation of the telephone number. Wei Lin types her own number. She receives the SMS. She confirms. The page asks for the address of the field. Wei Lin types the land-registry number: 41-1622-007. Seven mu of sweet sorghum. The page generates the QR code. Wei Lin takes the screenshot. She sends it to Zhang on WeChat. Zhang replies with a thumbs-up emoji. Then he writes: received.

Wei Lin looks at Hongwei's phone. It has been on for eleven minutes. The battery is at seventy-three per cent. An SMS from the operator is arriving on the screen: the credit expired one thousand four hundred and fifty days ago. Wei Lin reads it. She does not reply. She puts the phone down on the table. She goes to the kitchen, heats the water, makes the tea, drinks.

When she comes back to the bedroom Hongwei's phone has switched itself off. The battery is now at sixty-nine per cent. Wei Lin unplugs it from the charger. She puts it back in the third drawer. She closes the drawer.

She goes out into the courtyard. The lunar calendar is still hanging from the pole. From the pocket of her apron Wei Lin takes the red pencil she uses to correct her younger daughter's homework. The pencil is short, two fingers. Wei Lin goes up to the calendar. She finds the fifth of May. She draws a circle around the number. The circle is slightly crooked, because the calendar moves in the wind. The pencil mark is dark red, almost brown. The pencil has worn down. Wei Lin puts it back in her pocket. She stands looking at the circle. The circle is made. The day is marked. The calendar goes on moving.