百分之百One Hundred Percent

My name is Lu Chuan. I am a baking trainer at the Golden Wheat Alliance.

The Golden Wheat Alliance is a huge bakery franchise network with thousands of stores across the country. Here, people are not measured by their salary. They are measured in wheat stalks. Store managers move up by sales: one stalk, two stalks, three stalks, and on up. Past ten stalks you become a regional head, which means you get to wear a gold apron at the annual convention and sit in the front row.

I got into this business because I love the look on people’s faces when they bite into a really good loaf. I hold three baking certificates, and I think my kneading, proofing and temperature control are respectable. What I learned later is that, at the Golden Wheat Alliance, baking is only the entry ticket. The hard part is hiring people, training people, and dealing with people.

In my first year, I interviewed eight people at the central kitchen in a single day, all of them from online job ads. All eight turned me down. One man swore at me on his way out and blocked me on WeChat before he reached the door.

I went home and practiced smiling in the mirror all evening. The next day, I booked nine more.

Later I was given an apprentice named Adou, barely twenty, who kneaded dough as if he were giving it a massage. I trained him ten times, thirty hours in all, until he finally sold a cake on his own: six inches, plain, no fruit.

I was as happy as if I had earned a stalk myself.

That was when Su Tian noticed me.

She was the hardest-working store manager in our area. After the pandemic, the first store our region opened in this city was the one she held together. She had one defining trait: if she promised you something, she finished it, even if it took until midnight. Once, during a regional sales push, the regional head handed every store a target, and I could not get anywhere near mine. Su Tian said nothing, grabbed her apron, and took me out on calls. In one week, we hit it.

Before she met me, Su Tian had bought a house in another city, right at the top of the market, at an interest rate that still makes me wince. She told me she had been disappointed by what was happening in the region and wanted a fresh start somewhere else, and to build up the stores there. The neighborhood she picked was just two streets from Xiaomai’s house. Xiaomai was a store manager Su Tian had trained herself. They had known each other for almost ten years and were as close as sisters.

One year we went to visit Xiaomai together. She was in a slump that week and was barely booking customers. Her backyard had a flock of hens strolling around and two very loud ducks. When we left, she pushed a big carton of eggs into our car. All the way home, Su Tian held that carton on her lap so it would not break.

Later on, we became a couple.

After that, there was hardly a blank space left on our calendar. The year she reached three stalks, she won the red apron, and at the convention we promised Big Boss Wei from headquarters that we would earn the black apron by the end of the year. In December, we did. Then came four stalks, and then five. At eight months pregnant she was still standing in front of her staff teaching, and while recovering after the birth she was editing the work schedule from bed.

I named the work folder on my computer “Ten Stalks.” When Su Tian saw it, she laughed at me: “Get through five first.”

Let me say one fair word on our own behalf: this store’s numbers were always among the top in the region.

Even in quarters when we did not win the headquarters bonus pool, we paid our staff bonuses anyway: two hundred dollars for passing a monthly sales mark, five hundred for nearly tripling it, plus three convention tickets paid out of our own pocket. Every team outing cost more than a thousand dollars, and Su Tian always carried a bag of snacks to class and pressed them into the hands of whoever showed up.

When Axing studied for her trainer certification, another manager and I went through the questions with her one by one. She passed, and over the next two months her sales multiplied several times. Back then, every time Axing closed a big order, Su Tian posted about it on WeChat before Axing herself did.

Once, Boss Jiang asked me to teach a class for the whole region. That same evening, a senior manager wrote in a group chat of more than thirty people: “Lu Chuan isn’t a store manager, and he isn’t an assistant manager. What gives him the right to stand up there and teach?”

In fact, I had already qualified as an assistant manager long before, and I submitted the application that very night. For many days after that, nobody processed it.

That week I got so upset that I ran a fever. Su Tian made me a pot of congee and said, “Look at you. You even follow the rules when you get sick. You picked the weekend.”

The heads of our region were Boss Jiang and Mrs. Jiang, a husband-and-wife team with fourteen stalks.

They had a central kitchen, and some twenty store managers in the area were “attached” to it, paying a monthly fee to use the space.

The central kitchen was modest: there was filtered water, but no coffee; there was a tap, but no disposable cups. Please bring your own cup. Once a visitor came by, saw a row of store managers holding their own thermoses in a meeting, and assumed we were holding some kind of eco-friendly themed event.

Once, at a meeting, Mrs. Jiang happened to mention the rent for the place. In my head, I multiplied the number of managers by the fee and compared it with the figure she gave. I did it twice. Then I decided I had better stop doing mental math at meetings, before I started to feel worse about my arithmetic.

At the end of that year, the Jiangs held a managers’ meeting and prepared a gift for every store manager. The gifts covered half of a long table, all in luxury-brand shopping bags with gold letters that sparkled. Su Tian and I each received one, and we thanked them on the spot.

On the way home, another manager called and asked in a low voice, “The bag you got… does yours seem a little off too?”

We took the bags out and looked closely. The zipper stuck a little, the stitching wandered a little, and the letters on the logo looked slightly plumper than the ones in the store.

I know nothing about handbags. So that I would not wrong anyone, I took mine to have it professionally authenticated. The report is still in my desk drawer. The conclusion is one word long.

I do not care how much a bag is worth. As hard as we worked, I would have happily accepted a box of bread. What I cared about was this: giving us gifts like these, while asking us to hand over one hundred percent of our bonus to other people.

Later I thought the gift that day was actually quite fitting: the bag was fake, but the shopping bag was real.

The Jiangs had another habit: they liked to tell stories about people when those people were not in the room. How someone really got their numbers, who was friendly on the surface but feuding underneath, who had gotten “too big for their boots.” The storytellers were animated, and the listeners nodded along.

For a few years, Su Tian and I were part of the audience. Once, after hearing one of those stories about a certain manager, we kept our distance from her for quite a while. Only later did we realize that most of those stories could never be checked with the person face to face.

Until one day, we became characters in the stories ourselves. That was when I understood: the people who talk about others in front of you will talk about you in front of others.

Years ago, the Jiangs had also been attached to the central kitchen of Master Zhou in the neighboring district. Master Zhou had brought them up from scratch. Back then, they praised him to everyone they met: “Following Master Zhou would be worth it even if all we did was sell napa cabbage by the roadside!”

Later they struck out on their own and moved out. Su Tian said she wanted to attend classes on both sides, because Master Zhou taught well too.

Mrs. Jiang’s face changed on the spot.

From that day on, Master Zhou’s image in our region went from “worth selling napa cabbage for” to “don’t mention that man.”

A while later, some new staff joined at the convention and there were no regional blue aprons for them. Mrs. Jiang had the existing staff dig out their old aprons, wash them, and lend them to the newcomers. She also said at the meeting that Master Zhou’s aprons had been copied from ours.

Later I visited Master Zhou’s side once. Their training camp was on its twentieth-something session, and they had aprons in seven or eight colors, covering an entire wall. I stood in front of that wall for a long time and still could not work out who had copied whom.

Su Tian was very low during that period. She described it this way: it was like the grown-ups starting a fight at the New Year’s Eve dinner table, while a child stands to one side holding her rice bowl, not knowing which side to sit on.

Something else happened that year.

A regular customer at Su Tian’s store ate a walnut tart, said she had an allergic reaction and ended up in the hospital, and threatened to hire a lawyer and sue the store. Boss Jiang had worked that sale together with Su Tian, and they split the commission fifty-fifty.

Su Tian went to Boss Jiang to ask what to do. Boss Jiang said, let’s wait and see.

And then he kept waiting and seeing.

In the end, Su Tian went to the customer’s home alone with a fruit basket to apologize, and was yelled at for more than an hour.

Later, in regional classes, Boss Jiang used the story several times as an example of what not to do. He said he had warned Su Tian not to rush, and she had not listened. Everyone in the audience nodded. Su Tian was sitting in the third row, nodding too.

I knew she was nodding because she did not want to cry.

Every year, the Golden Wheat Alliance holds a team trip for its store managers. That year, it was at a hot spring resort in the mountains.

Two weeks before we left, one evening, Boss Jiang posted in our group chat: “Have you settled how to split the bonus pool with Xiaomai and Axing yet? Get it done.”

Mrs. Jiang followed: “Forget about prizes. Pay cash.”

Boss Jiang added: “And don’t use the bonus for team outings either.”

I asked in the group: “Is splitting the bonus mandatory now?”

Nobody answered me directly. The group went quiet for a while, and then everyone started discussing how many swimsuits to pack for the trip.

Su Tian said she had already explained it clearly to the two managers: thirty percent for team outings, thirty percent for bonuses, and they had both received theirs. Boss Jiang said using bonus money for outings made no sense; the money should go straight into the hands of the people doing the work.

Later Mrs. Jiang said a few more things in the group. The two lines I remember best were: “Go ahead and ask around. I’m not afraid of anyone asking.” And: “If you don’t handle this, everyone under you will leave sooner or later.”

My mother came along that year for the first time. She is a retired piano teacher. The year before, she had started her own franchise business in her city and had gotten a few old friends licensed with her. She was full of enthusiasm. When Su Tian invited her, she was happy for weeks, and she even bought a new silk scarf for the trip.

On the first morning, Su Tian, Xiaomai and Axing squeezed together by the hot spring pool for a photo, all three making the same hand sign, smiling so hard their eyes nearly closed. That photo stayed on Su Tian’s phone as her lock screen for a long time, until one day she quietly changed it.

On the second evening, my mother, Su Tian and two store managers were having dinner in the restaurant. My mother told me about this part later.

Everyone was enjoying the meal when Boss Jiang and Mrs. Jiang came over with their plates and sat down. After a few pleasantries, Mrs. Jiang asked Su Tian, “That quarterly bonus pool of yours, when are you going to share it?”

Su Tian said, but we always have. Thirty percent of the pool goes to bonuses, thirty percent to team outings, and the rest is set aside for the tax office.

Mrs. Jiang said, “That’s not enough.”

Su Tian explained, “We don’t have much in savings. We just had a baby. Our rent and living expenses depend on this money.”

Mrs. Jiang said, “You can afford a nanny and a postpartum caregiver. You have no trouble spending all that money.”

My mother put down her chopsticks and said one thing: “I paid for the postpartum caregiver.” Then she got up and went back to her room.

At the elevator she ran into Big Boss Wei from headquarters and his wife, and the three of them took a photo together. My mother said afterwards that it was the only photo she smiled in that day.

That night, Su Tian did not sleep at all.

The next morning, she took out her phone and asked around: how did other regions handle this money? Some said they gave red envelopes to a few of their hardest workers, some said they shared a little over twenty percent, and some said they had never taken out a cent. After asking everyone, not one person said it all had to be given away.

That evening, Su Tian took her “research report” to a meeting with the Jiangs, hoping to talk it through properly. Her two managers, Xiaomai and Axing, came too. My mother was worried, so she went along and sat on the sofa in the corner of the suite.

Mrs. Jiang said that every store manager in every region shared one hundred percent, and that sharing only half was too stingy. She gave the examples of several managers, saying they had also started by sharing only half, but their staff had made a fuss, and now they shared one hundred percent too.

Xiaomai and Axing sat on the other side of the table, and the more they listened, the more they felt Su Tian had shortchanged them. The three of them took turns criticizing Su Tian.

My mother stood up from the sofa: “What is going on? Are you all going to gang up on her?”

Boss Jiang came out of the inner room, took out his phone and began reading from the chat history: on such-and-such a day I reminded you, on such-and-such a day I reminded you again…

Su Tian cried. She said the baby had just been born, the bills and the rent depended on this money, and she really could not give all of it away.

Xiaomai said, “What does that have to do with us? This is money we’ve earned.” Then she turned and asked Boss Jiang whether she could move directly under his store. Axing said, then me too.

The next morning, Su Tian ran into Mrs. Jiang at the breakfast buffet and told her, “My mother-in-law was really happy on this trip, and now she doesn’t want to do this anymore.”

Mrs. Jiang picked up a slice of pineapple. “If she doesn’t want to do it, she doesn’t have to.”

A day later, Master Zhou told us that Xiaomai had stopped him in the elevator and said she wanted to move under his store.

The night before, she wanted to move under Boss Jiang; the next morning, under Master Zhou. I did the math for Xiaomai: in one night, she wanted to switch bosses twice. I don’t blame her. She was probably just dazed from all the arguing. That night, everyone in the room was dazed.

For the remaining ten-plus days of the trip, Su Tian barely touched her food. When we got home and she stepped on the scale, she had lost several pounds. Xiaomai hardly left her room.

Over time, I came to see that “one hundred percent” is a magical number. On stage, it is called “a suggestion; each store decides for itself.” Inside a hotel room, it is called “the rule.” In the group chat, it is called “what everyone does.”

After my mother quit, she moved in to help us with the baby.

Every day she pushed the stroller to the park, and there she met a woman who was taking her granddaughter out for some sun. The two of them went from baby food to sleep schedules, and from sleep schedules to franchising, and got along better and better. Only at the end did they discover that this woman’s son-in-law was none other than Master Zhou from the neighboring district.

The woman said, “On my son-in-law’s side, you can attend any training you like, there’s no space fee, and there are cups.”

My mother asked, “Disposable ones?”

The woman said, “Disposable ones.”

My mother decided on the spot: “Then I’m with you.”

By then I had not been to the central kitchen in a long time. Soon after, headquarters published a new booklet, the Married Partner Manager Guidelines, which said in black and white: “Spouses are not required to be in the same district.” Following the rules, I completed the required period of inactivity and submitted a transfer request. Headquarters approved it.

I was placed on Master Zhou’s side, under the woman from the park. By seniority, I think that makes me my own mother’s… I still haven’t figured it out.

Transferring out did not end things.

On a Tuesday in late September, headquarters held a meeting in a city down south. Mrs. Jiang saw Big Boss Wei there.

I was not there. What follows reached me secondhand, later on. By the time it got to me, it had probably passed through two or three mouths, but I believe the gist survived.

Mrs. Jiang told Big Boss Wei that Su Tian and Lu Chuan had actually done nothing; the store had been held up by the people under them; the two of them simply did not know how to lead.

When it came to the bonus pool, she said she had only suggested that Su Tian share a little bit of it, and Su Tian had refused.

When I heard that, I opened my phone and scrolled back to that group chat from a few months earlier. “If you don’t handle this, everyone under you will leave sooner or later.” It was still there. So that was a “suggestion.”

I thought of the “one hundred percent” in that hotel room at the hot spring resort. It turns out the number has a fourth name: in front of the big boss from headquarters, it is called “a little bit.”

As for “done nothing”: after Su Tian gave birth, on the very first Saturday of her recovery month, she picked up her thermos and went back to the central kitchen to teach her staff. I took a photo that day. In it she looks a little pale, smiling with everything she has. I dug that photo out and looked at it for a long time, and in the end I did not send it to anyone.

Supposedly, when Big Boss Wei heard all this, he said: the bonus pool is the store manager’s own money; a regional head has no right to “suggest” that anyone share it; rather than having managers hand out money, encourage the people under them to win their own individual bonuses.

I saved that sentence in the notes app on my phone, under the title “What the Big Boss Said.” On many sleepless nights afterwards, I opened it and read it again.

What I did not know then was that this sentence would only ever appear in secondhand versions, and never in any official email.

A few days after that meeting down south, at the end of September, the Jiangs held another managers’ meeting. Afterwards, a manager Su Tian had trained herself stopped answering her messages. Su Tian was removed from every group chat in the region.

That manager was a friend Su Tian had known for almost ten years. Every message Su Tian sent showed “Read,” and nothing came back. Every night after putting the baby to sleep, Su Tian would pick up her phone, look at it, and put it down again.

That was the part I could not stand.

I wrote a long letter, setting down what had happened over these years one thing at a time. I sent it one-on-one to about twenty people, and submitted it to the Risk Control department at headquarters. I did not ask for anyone to be punished. I only hoped someone would step forward and say: Su Tian did nothing wrong.

The afternoon I sent the letter, Big Boss Wei from headquarters called and asked me to take it down. I said yes.

Less than half an hour after we hung up, Mrs. Jiang posted on WeChat Moments, visible to everyone in her contacts. The gist was: some young people speak without thinking, and this one is still seeing a doctor and recovering, so there is no need to argue with him; as for who is fanning the flames behind the scenes, everyone knows.

Someone added in the comments: “Not quite right in the head, is he?”

After reading that post, I went to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. The man in the mirror had messy hair and dark circles under his eyes, but he was in perfectly good shape.

I decided not to take the letter down just yet. I was afraid that taking it down right then would be the same as admitting I really was “seeing a doctor and recovering.”

The next morning, Risk Control emailed asking me to take it down by October 3. That afternoon I replied: Yes.

First I replaced the long letter with a short notice. In it I wrote that I love this platform, that it gave me a career, and that I even met the love of my life here. When I finished, I handed my phone to Su Tian. She read it for a long time and said, “Is this a notice or a love letter?”

I said, “Both.” On the evening of October 2, I spoke with Big Boss Wei on the phone again. At eight thirty, I shut the link down for good, one day before the deadline.

At seven thirty in the morning on October 3, I received a lawyer’s letter.

Su Tian was still asleep, and so was the baby. I sat in the kitchen and read it word by word by the light of the fridge. When I reached page three, the kettle boiled, and I realized I had never poured the water.

The letter listed ten items. It said I had spread false statements and leaked trade secrets. I went through it item by item. The closest thing to a trade secret was probably “the central kitchen does not provide disposable cups.” I thought about it for a long time. It is true that only the twenty-some managers who bring their own cups every day know this secret.

The letter also said that I had posted my letter on some “AI baking platform” website. I searched online, and that was the first time I learned the company existed.

The letter demanded that I retract, apologize, hand over the names of everyone who received my letter, and confirm all of this in writing within ten days.

I found a lawyer too. He read my letter and theirs, was silent for a moment, and said, “The biggest problem with your letter is that it’s too long.”

Then he wrote a reply for me. It was not short either: five pages. It went out before their deadline.

I asked him, “If I really sued over her post, how much could I get?”

He said, “That depends on how much loss you can prove.”

That night, I actually took out a sheet of paper and made a list: several managers who had deleted me on WeChat; a friendship of almost ten years; the weight Su Tian lost; and my mother’s new silk scarf. She had not worn it once since the trip.

I looked at the list for a long time and realized that not one thing on it came with a receipt.

When my mother found out about the lawyer’s letter, she did not say a word all evening. The next morning, she put on her reading glasses and wrote her own letter to headquarters, describing those days at the hot spring resort from beginning to end, and attached the photo of herself with Big Boss Wei and his wife by the elevator.

She said, “I’m not trying to make trouble for anyone. I just want the company to know how hard my daughter-in-law cried that day.”

A few days after the lawyer’s letter, someone I had not heard from in a long time invited me for coffee. Her name was Yezi. A few years ago she had also been a store manager in Boss Jiang’s region, and then she left.

She had heard about us. The first thing she said when we met was: “So you’ve finally gotten to this point too.”

She told me her story. I was not there for any of it. What follows is what she told me.

When she was new, Boss Jiang helped her land a big wedding cake order. Boss Jiang was the one who decided on the filling. On the wedding day, the couple cut into the cake and their faces fell: it was nothing like what they had wanted.

The couple’s family called to complain. Yezi called Boss Jiang. No answer. She called again. Still no answer. For that entire afternoon, Boss Jiang’s phone was somewhere with “bad reception.”

In the end, Yezi went to their home alone, smiled through the apology, refunded the deposit, and took the scolding.

When I heard this, I thought of the walnut tart. Two incidents, years apart, that looked like they had come out of the same mold.

Yezi had received a year-end gift too. She said she could tell right away: “I’ve carried a real one before, you know.”

Yezi had good customers and ran a strong business. When the Jiangs heard she was leaving, they invited her to dinner. Halfway through the meal, both of them were in tears, begging her to stay. Yezi said she could not eat a single bite.

She left anyway. Before she went, she said something to the Jiangs about what she thought of them. It was harsh, so I won’t repeat it.

After she left, the Jiangs told a lot of stories about her at managers’ meetings. I was sitting in the audience back then, and I nodded along too.

When we finished our coffee, Yezi said, “Don’t be sad. In this region, everyone who leaves becomes a story. It’s just your turn.”

On the day of my interview, the baby cried twice in the next room. My mother walked her up and down the hallway, softly singing nursery rhymes. I worried that Manager Gu would hear. Then I thought: if he does, so much the better. At least it proves I’m of sound mind and still looking after a baby.

Manager Gu from Risk Control interviewed me by video. His questions were detailed: when had I met Master Zhou; what did my mother mean in her letter when she wrote that she “left together with her son”; had Su Tian transferred money to Xiaomai.

Yes. It wasn’t bonus money. It was team-outing money from earlier. Xiaomai lived in another city and couldn’t make it to the region’s team outings. Su Tian still took the share that would have been spent on her and sent it to her: three thousand dollars in cash. She thought that even if she left this business one day, she wanted to leave with a clear conscience.

Xiaomai still has not answered her messages.

During the interview, I thought of Ms. Chen.

A few years ago, Ms. Chen had also written to headquarters about the Jiangs. Afterwards, at a managers’ meeting, the Jiangs spent two or three hours criticizing her in front of everyone, and at the end asked us all to delete her from WeChat. I was there that day. When the meeting ended, I saw several people with their heads down, tapping “Delete Contact,” in perfect unison, like a morning exercise routine.

Ms. Chen was later removed from the group chats and never came back to the central kitchen.

A few days later, Risk Control’s conclusion arrived.

The first part said that most of what I complained about amounted to “differences in leadership style and team relationships,” and would not result in formal discipline; but how the bonus pool is split “needs clarification,” to distinguish what is a “headquarters requirement” from what is merely “a regional practice.”

When I read that, I laughed out loud. So headquarters had never heard of that one hundred percent either.

The second part said that, during the investigation, headquarters had confirmed that Su Tian and I were already married before my transfer. I suspect it was because, in the interview, I said “the way they treated my wife,” and Manager Gu wrote it down. Under the old handbook, “married store managers may not be placed in different districts.” So headquarters would move me back to Boss Jiang’s district. The Jiangs had already agreed in writing to take me back.

I pulled out the new booklet: “Spouses are not required to be in the same district.”

Manager Gu said the booklet was for couples who had signed the Married Partner Agreement, and we had not signed it.

I turned to another page of the booklet: signing the agreement “does not change any district or compliance requirements.”

In other words: couples who sign the agreement do not have to be in the same district; couples who do not sign must be in the same district; and signing or not signing does not change the district requirements.

I copied those three sentences onto sticky notes and stuck them on the fridge door. Every morning, while making the baby’s formula, I read them once. On the third day, I finally understood: I don’t understand.

I wrote a request for reconsideration. The very first sentence asked that no change be made while it was under review.

In the letter I also mentioned Ms. Chen. I said that if I truly had to go back, could Big Boss Wei first host a few video meetings so the misunderstandings could be cleared up face to face: one with Xiaomai, one with Axing, and one with all twelve managers who had been at that September meeting, so that what was said there could be said again. I listed all twelve names, one by one, in an attachment.

At the end I added one sentence: otherwise, if I go back, I truly do not know how I can keep doing this work well.

Before I hit “Send,” I stared at that sentence for a long time. It was the sentence in the whole letter with the least legal basis, and the most truth.

Around that time, rumors started going around: Lu Chuan had been fired by headquarters, and the flour mill had cut off Su Tian’s supply.

A longtime customer called Su Tian and asked, “Will you still do my kid’s birthday cakes?”

I logged in to the back end, took a few screenshots, and pixelated everything I could: logos, amounts, ID numbers, my supervisor’s name, the banner ads. When I was done, all that was left was my name and a big patch of mosaic.

It was probably the most heavily pixelated “selfie” I have ever taken.

I rewrote the caption seven times.

The first version said, “The innocent need no defense.” I asked Su Tian what she thought. She said it sounded like I was cursing someone. The second version added, “Heaven is watching from three feet above.” My mother read it and said it sounded like a spell. The third version said, “I have retained legal counsel and will see this through to the end.” My lawyer read it and said it sounded like a declaration of war.

What remained in the end were a few plain facts: we are fine, our licenses and contracts are intact, and we will keep looking after every customer’s orders. At the very end I added one line: People know what is fair.

Ten minutes after I posted it, it had more than forty likes. One of them was from Adou, whom I had not heard from in ages. He left a comment: “Mr. Lu, I can make cakes with fruit now.”

October was half over. The baby had started pulling herself up on the edge of the sofa. Su Tian was back in the kitchen experimenting with a new flavor, osmanthus this time. My mother had met even more women at the park, and a few days ago I saw her wearing that silk scarf again as she headed out the door.

On a Friday in mid-October, the result of my reconsideration request arrived.

The email was long, very polite, and very well organized.

On the booklet: married partner status requires an application, a signed agreement and written approval from headquarters before it takes effect, and you did not apply. “Spouses are not required to be in the same district” refers to people who were already in different districts when they married.

On my point that “signing or not signing does not change the district requirements”: “We agree. That is exactly why the old handbook controls.”

I walked over to the fridge and, under the three sticky notes, added a fourth: So the old one wins.

On the law I had cited: it had been considered, and it did not change the decision.

On my concerns: headquarters had spoken with Boss Jiang and Mrs. Jiang, who had said they would support my return and work well with us going forward. Headquarters expects everyone to act professionally and will not tolerate retaliation against anyone for raising concerns with headquarters. If that happens, please report it directly to Risk Control.

When I read that line, I thought of Ms. Chen. Back then, Ms. Chen had also reported directly to headquarters.

On the three video meetings: the lawyer’s letters between me and the Jiangs had nothing to do with headquarters; headquarters was not a party and would take no position; so the meetings would not be arranged.

On Ms. Chen: headquarters would review that separately.

The last line of the email asked all parties to continue to avoid escalating the matter.

The change took effect that same day. In other words, by the time I finished reading the email, I had already been moved back.

I opened the notes app on my phone. “What the Big Boss Said” was still there: the bonus pool is the store manager’s own money. After that meeting down south, Big Boss Wei had been on our side.

What happened after that, I don’t know. Maybe someone said a lot more in his ear. Maybe nobody said anything at all, and the sales figures simply spoke for themselves.

To be honest, I understand him. On one side, regional heads with fourteen stalks, among the biggest in the country, whose yearly numbers could cover an entire wall. On the other, a five-stalk store manager and her husband who likes to write long letters. If I were sitting in his chair, I can’t promise I would have chosen differently.

Later I figured something out: in a place where wheat stalks do the talking, fourteen stalks and five stalks never weighed the same on the scale. Headquarters wasn’t being unreasonable. It was just better at arithmetic. Disappointing one small store manager to keep a whole wall of sales numbers happy is a trade that adds up every time.

I just wonder whether that note still counts.

I forwarded the email to Yezi. She replied with a laughing-crying emoji, and a moment later added: “At least they answered you. And it’s pretty long.”

That night, after the baby fell asleep, Su Tian asked me, “Are you going to the central kitchen tomorrow?”

I thought about it and said, “Yes. I’ll go back and bake good bread.”

She said, “And if the bread doesn’t turn out?”

I said, “Then I’ll finish writing this story.”

She leaned on my shoulder, and after a while she said, “When you write it, don’t make me cry too much.”

I promised. So in the version you are reading, she cries only once. The real number, I’ll keep to myself for her.

Over these past few months, I have thought a lot about the words “one hundred percent.” I still cannot say whether a bonus should be shared one hundred percent. But I know there are some things that should always be one hundred percent: the bread you give your customers, the patience you give your staff, the heart you give your family. Those, we always gave in full.

The next morning, I took my own thermos and went back to the central kitchen.

Everything was the same as before. The filtered water was in its usual spot, the sales board was still on the wall, and Mrs. Jiang stood at the door, smiling, and said, “Welcome home.” When the managers saw me, some nodded, and some looked down at their phones.

Only one thing was different.

Next to the tap stood a neat stack of brand-new disposable paper cups, with a small printed label beside them: “With care from headquarters.”

I stood there and looked at those cups for a long time.

So the investigation had produced a result after all.

(The End)