By the end of Primary One, the hall no longer felt enormous.

  It felt conquered.

  That night, I waited until after dinner when the house was quiet. The landline sat on the small wooden table near the living room wall. Beige. Coiled cord slightly twisted from years of rotation.

  I dialed Payne’s number from memory.

  Her mother picked up.

  “Hello?”

  “Auntie, can I speak to Payne?”

  A pause.

  “Okay, wait.”

  Shuffling sounds. A faint shout in the background.

  Then her voice.

  “Hello?”

  “I did it,” I said immediately.

  “Did what?”

  “The wolf.”

  “What wolf?”

  “The Boy Who Cried Wolf. I performed it. In front of the whole school.”

  There was a sharp intake of breath.

  “You said you didn’t want last time.”

  “That was last time.”

  “So how?”

  I did not summarize.

  I reenacted.

  “There was once… a shepherd boy…” I lowered my voice theatrically into the receiver.

  “Why are you talking like that?” she laughed.

  “I used the mic. I ran across the stage. I shouted ‘WOLF!’ like this.”

  I pulled the receiver slightly away and yelled, “WOLF! WOLF!”

  From the living room, my mother’s voice floated in.

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  “Why are you shouting?”

  “I’m telling a story,” I shouted back, then lowered my tone again.

  “I switched voices. I did the villagers. ‘Quick! Grab the sticks!’ Then I became the wolf. I crouched. I growled.”

  “You growled?”

  “Yes. Like this.” I growled softly into the phone.

  She burst out laughing.

  “Did the teachers scold you?”

  “No. They clapped.”

  “All of them?”

  “All.”

  I could hear the smile in her silence.

  “I didn’t run away this time,” I added more quietly.

  She understood more than most people did.

  “Good,” she said.

  A few weeks later, the temple announced the academic awards.

  Students with exceptional results would receive a small monetary reward. A blessing for diligence. An encouragement to continue.

  My name was called.

  I walked forward, bowed slightly, accepted the envelope with both hands.

  Inside was cash.

  Crisp notes.

  Not a large sum by adult standards.

  Massive by Primary One standards.

  Other children talked about toys. Stationery. Snacks.

  I did not.

  I went home and placed the money inside a small box in my drawer.

  I pressed it flat so it would not wrinkle.

  I counted it twice.

  Then I closed the lid.

  This will matter later, I thought.

  Money is optional when you do not understand time.

  Money becomes strategic when you do.

  Every dollar that came to me after that was treated the same way.

  Red packet money.

  Festival gifts.

  Small rewards.

  Untouched.

  Saved.

  One day, there will be a thing called Bitcoin.

  And when that window opens, capital will be oxygen.

  Primary One ended.

  Primary Two began.

  Mother decided I needed tougher training.

  The new tuition center was nothing like the previous one.

  The room was larger but colder. Fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead. The tutor was older. Quieter. Stricter.

  And beside her desk lay a thick rattan cane.

  Not decorative.

  Operational.

  The rules were explained on the first day.

  Everyone takes turns answering.

  When it is your turn, you answer correctly.

  If you fail, you step forward.

  Palm out.

  Strike.

  No argument.

  If someone fails, anyone may raise their hand to answer in their place and earn one mercy point.

  One mercy point cancels one future strike.

  The system was identical in structure.

  The execution was not.

  The first time I heard the rattan land, the sound was deeper than the old tuition’s cane.

  Not sharp.

  Heavy.

  The boy flinched before the strike even connected.

  When it landed, his shoulders jerked violently. His fingers curled inward instinctively.

  He returned to his seat silent, lips pressed thin.

  Pain was not symbolic here.

  It was instructional.

  When my turn came, I answered clearly.

  When others failed, I waited.

  Hands shot up around me quickly. Competition for mercy points intensified.

  The rattan created urgency.

  The old version of me would have hunted for opportunities.

  Calculated weakness.

  Accumulated points like currency.

  This time, I measured differently.

  If three hands were already up, I stayed still.

  If no one moved and the tutor’s eyes narrowed, I raised mine.

  Slow.

  Deliberate.

  Correct answer delivered calmly.

  “Mercy point,” she said, marking it down.

  Weeks passed.

  The rattan never touched my palm.

  Subtle signs about my father surfaced at home. Despite his healthier routines, occasional coughs lingered longer than they should, and fatigue sometimes showed in his eyes. Decades of smoking had left traces that might not be erased. I understood that, despite improvements, some outcomes might be immutable. His life could still end sooner than hoped, perhaps by the end of primary year four.