Chapter 87: Sun Miaomiao’s Potted Fruit Tree (Bonus Chapter for Fifty Consecutive Regular Updates)

Lunch was finished quickly; everyone found a spot, some to rest, others to chat. With limited conditions, a proper midday break was difficult. Thanks to Zhong Di’s generous payment and decent food, no one had much to complain about.

At noon, the sheep in the pen began to bleat—first one or two, then a whole flock joining in. It was either thirst or hunger. Feeding sheep required constant attention, for if they lacked water or feed, the bleating would never end.

“We’ve been so busy, I probably forgot to give them water. I remember adding plenty of feed,” Shao Hong said, embarrassed by the noise. These days had truly left him dizzy with work.

“No worries. You boil some hot water for the uncles, maybe make some mung bean soup. I’ll go add water for the sheep,” Zhong Di volunteered, taking the bucket from Shao Hong. If it were only about adding feed, perhaps he wouldn’t have stepped in, but water was another matter.

He could conveniently add some Wild Sand Immortal Sprouts as well—it was just right.

Zhong Di approached the pen and began to add water, stopping halfway. If too much water was added at once, it could easily get contaminated, making it less healthy for the sheep. Though sheep weren’t particularly delicate, Zhong Di always felt uneasy about it; adding half seemed best.

Once the water was in, he topped off the feed. More feed never hurt—otherwise, at the slightest shortage, the sheep would start bleating again, which was terribly annoying.

Still, the sheep kept calling, as if hoping for more water. In that short time, they’d already drunk much of what he’d added.

“They’ve got feed, they’ve got water, and yet they keep bleating. If you keep it up, I’ll turn you lot into roast lamb,” Zhong Di threatened, a bit exasperated. Perhaps it was the Wild Sand Immortal Sprouts; the water always disappeared quickly, and whenever it was gone, the sheep started calling again.

Unlike chickens or rabbits—chickens only clucked a little, rabbits were silent—but sheep were never mute.

He remembered that the earth oven built recently for hosting tourists was nearly finished. Maybe it was time for a whole roasted lamb?

That earth oven could roast chicken and duck, but not just those—pigeon, rabbit, fish, all could be done. Whole roasted lamb was just one of its specialties.

Perfect. The oven was ready; a whole roasted lamb would season it nicely.

After replenishing the feed, Zhong Di went for his midday rest. Roasting a lamb could wait until the afternoon when it was cooler—no need to labor under the midday sun.

He hadn’t slept long before his phone rang, disturbing his nap. It was Sun Miao-miao calling. She always seemed to call when he was resting, or so it felt, though perhaps it wasn’t all that frequent.

“Hello, if you have something to say, say it. If not, I’m hanging up,” Zhong Di mumbled, not fully awake. In this summer heat, it was especially unpleasant to be forced awake before one’s nap was over.

“Wait, this time I really do need help. Can you take a look at a potted fruit tree for me? It’s sick,” Sun Miao-miao’s voice was anxious, tinged with sadness.

“A potted fruit tree? What kind? Apple, jujube, grape?” Zhong Di’s first thought was a fruit tree in a planter. Nowadays, potted fruit trees were common—apples, jujubes, grapes, even some tropical fruits.

Strawberries were perhaps the most common among potted fruit trees. They could grow anywhere with suitable temperatures, and always bore fruit. Although strawberries were perennial herbs, they were classified as fruit trees, just as bananas, though not woody, were still fruit trees.

“It’s a potted lemon tree. Please, you must help me save it—my grandmother gave it to me,” Sun Miao-miao said hurriedly.

“All right, bring it over and I’ll take a look,” Zhong Di replied, hanging up. Judging by Sun Miao-miao’s tone, that lemon tree must have special meaning for her.

Sun Miao-miao wiped the tears from her eyes, gazing at the large lemon tree before her, gently caressing its leaves. Lately, the tree had grown worse—first a few leaves troubled her, then more and more, and it began shedding leaves as well.

She’d sought advice—loosen the soil, add fertilizer, several suggestions. She tried them all, but none helped; in fact, the tree worsened.

Her late grandmother had given her this tree, and she’d nurtured it for years at home. It even bore lemons, and every time she made lemon water, she thought of her grandmother.

Her grandmother loved lemons, often saying their fragrance was the loveliest scent in the world. Since childhood, she’d always prepared lemon water for her granddaughter.

After fights with friends, after quarrels with parents, after winning an award—every occasion called for a glass of lemon water. Her childhood had been shaped by her grandmother’s presence.

This tree was her grandmother’s legacy—nothing could happen to it.

At a loss, she glanced at her phone wallpaper: Zhong Di, that boy with the charming smile. His vegetables tasted so good and grew so well; surely he had expertise in these matters. Thus, she’d called him.

Since he agreed, she couldn’t delay. Sun Miao-miao quickly arranged a truck and some helpers to move the big lemon tree.

Meanwhile, Zhong Di, after putting down his phone, checked the time—already four o’clock. He decided not to go back to sleep; even if he tried, there wasn’t much time left.

“Zhong Di, you’re up early today. Want a bowl of mung bean soup? It’s just cooled,” Shao Hong greeted him, holding out a bowl. The words sounded oddly sarcastic.

“Are you saying I’m usually like a pig?” Zhong Di retorted.

“No, you’re just leisurely. Come on, do you want it or not?” Shao Hong sensed the tension and quickly changed the subject.

“I’ll take it. By the way, later, find a couple of people to help slaughter a sheep,” Zhong Di said, gulping down the soup. Refreshing! The midday heat was swept away. No wonder everyone kept mung bean soup on hand in summer.

He decided not to argue with Shao Hong; there was no point, and digging deeper would only annoy himself.

“Slaughter a sheep? What for?” Shao Hong asked, surprised.

“To eat!” With that, Zhong Di headed to the homestead.

The uncles had mostly finished their rest, not yet time to return to work. They chatted, joked, and lay on wooden boards and cardboard, which seemed to have served as makeshift beds.

Zhong Di felt a little guilty letting them sleep on the ground, but there was no other way.

“Uncles, thank you for your hard work recently. Tonight, we’ll finish early, and we’ll have roast lamb for dinner. Let your families know—you might be home a bit late,” Zhong Di announced, raising his voice so everyone could hear.