Chapter Two: The Script

Grandpa’s house was the very image of a rural home: two main rooms in the main building, and a side room next to the small kitchen hut. Grandpa gave both of the larger rooms to Zhou Miao and his two companions, taking the small hut for himself. Zhou Miao and the chubby Wang Jiang shared one room, while the nonconformist girl Li Feifei slept in the room that belonged to Grandpa’s granddaughter—the local protagonist of this season’s "Transformation Project," Lin Yanan, who was currently living with Zhou Miao’s family to experience city life for thirty days.

Though summer was closing in, Grandpa still heated water for them to wash up with. After a long, exhausting day, Wang Jiang barely wiped himself down before collapsing on the bed in a daze. Zhou Miao sat at the edge of his bed, soaking his feet and absentmindedly flipping through an old newspaper. Their phones had been confiscated upon arrival, leaving them with little to do.

The silence was broken by the entrance of the director, wearing a small vest. He handed each of them a sheet of paper. Zhou Miao’s lips curled into a smirk as he glanced at it. “Weren’t you claiming this show had no script? Then what’s this?”

The director scratched his nose awkwardly. “Well, you know how variety shows are. It’s just how things go. Take a look at the script first, and tomorrow—”

He stopped mid-sentence, his face darkening as Zhou Miao folded the A4 paper and began to wipe his feet with it.

Wiping as he spoke, Zhou Miao drawled, “Don’t bother. I told you when I came—I’m not going to cooperate. I just want to muddle through these thirty days and have as little presence on this lousy show as possible.”

“Don’t forget, your parents signed a contract with us. If you—”

Before he could finish, Zhou Miao cut him off again, waving a hand. “Yes, they signed a contract, which is why I’m here filming. But nowhere in that contract does it say I have to act out your script.”

Finishing with his feet, Zhou Miao stood to dump the water. “I’ll follow the show’s process, but forget the script. You want me to play the fool on national television—how am I supposed to show my face after that?”

After leaving the room, Zhou Miao sighed. He’d been this provocative, yet the director still hadn’t replaced him.

Watching Zhou Miao’s retreating figure, the director rubbed his temples, clearly pained. Wang Jiang timidly asked, “So… should I still follow the script tomorrow? What if he won’t cooperate?”

“Let’s just see how things go tomorrow,” the director replied helplessly before stepping out.

Back in the production team’s van, the director recounted what had happened to the show’s planner. Both lit cigarettes, brooding in silence.

“Maybe we should find someone else,” the planner suggested. “He’s just impossible—no way we can film like this.”

The director was tempted, but after wrestling with the idea for a while, he still couldn’t make up his mind. Instead, he pulled out his phone and started scrolling through the show’s reviews on Douban.

The more he read, the more disheartened he became. After several highly-praised seasons, the reputation of "Transformation Project" had gone into freefall; the comments section was a mess.

“It’s all just formula—this script is so obvious. Do they think the audience is stupid?”

“The city kids change their stars, the country kids change their hearts. Has the production team ever considered the harm this show could do to rural children?”

“The routine is so predictable: the city kids complain about the food, the living conditions, cause a scene, maybe even a fight, then make up. They suffer, have an epiphany, everyone smiles, the show ends, they become internet celebrities, make a fortune, and live happily ever after…”

The director exhaled a long breath, feeling a wave of exhaustion. After a long silence, he suddenly asked, “How many years have we been making this show?”

“The first season was in 2006. That makes fifteen years exactly,” the planner replied without hesitation.

“Has it really been that long? I suppose it has—twenty seasons of ‘Transformation Project.’ We’ve certainly lasted,” the director said, a weary smile on his lips.

“But after all these seasons and dozens of young guests, do you think anyone has actually been ‘transformed’ by this show?”

The planner fell silent, thinking for a long time before slowly shaking his head. “No.”

Every city kid that came on the show arrived with a host of problems, and left seemingly reformed—but it was all just script.

The director exhaled another plume of smoke, his eyes suddenly resolute. He flicked away his cigarette and fixed his gaze on the planner. “What if we do a real episode for once?”

“A real transformation? If their parents can’t change them, how can we?” The planner was doubtful.

“How will we know if we don’t try? Here’s what we’ll do tomorrow…” The director leaned in, whispering his plan.

At dawn, Zhou Miao was shaken awake, his eyes still glued shut with sleep. “What’s going on? It’s so early…”

The staff didn’t bother explaining; they hustled both boys out of bed. When Zhou Miao glanced at the old clock in the living room, it was only half past five.

Once all three were up, the director—his eyes bloodshot—appeared and announced, “This season, we’re using a new process. For the next thirty days, you must fully immerse yourselves in rural life and truly experience its hardships.”

Zhou Miao scratched his head. “What does that mean?”

“Simply put, whatever Grandpa does, you do. Starting today, you’ll follow his every step.”

Wang Jiang was still groggy. Turning to Grandpa, who was carrying breakfast, he asked, “Grandpa, what are we doing today?”

Facing the camera, Grandpa gave a sheepish smile. “It’s the busy season for us. After breakfast, I’ll be heading to the fields to harvest wheat.”

Harvesting wheat! The three city kids immediately sensed trouble—there was no doubt it would be hard work.

“Grandpa, how many acres do you have?” Zhou Miao asked, suddenly struck by a crucial thought. Heaven forbid it should be hundreds.

“Not too many, just a bit over twenty acres.”

Wang Jiang’s eyes widened in alarm. “How big is twenty acres?”

Zhou Miao shot him a look. “What did you learn in school? One acre is six hundred sixty-six square meters—do the math.”

Li Feifei slumped onto the bench, her face ashen.

In an instant, all three withdrew into themselves, appetite for porridge gone.

Grandpa chuckled. “Actually, I’ve harvested most of it. There are only two or three acres left. If you help me today, we should finish by evening.”

Their expressions relaxed a little. Realizing they were in for a tough day, they hurried to fill their stomachs—there’d be no strength for labor on an empty belly.

After breakfast, the three followed Grandpa on his tractor to the fields. It was high summer; the golden wheat stretched as far as the eye could see, and across the fields, men, women, and children in straw hats were hard at work.

Wang Jiang put on the straw hat Grandpa had given him and, full of theatrical bravado, shouted, “I’m going to be the King of the Pirates!”

Fanning himself with his hat, Zhou Miao gazed at the scenery and retorted without turning, “The Pirate King would never go for a guy like you.”

Li Feifei ignored the boys’ bickering, torn between not wearing the hat and risking a sunburn, or wearing it and flattening her hairstyle.

Zhou Miao noticed her dilemma and grinned mischievously. “Worried about your hair? Here’s a trick—cut a hole in the hat, pull your ponytail through. That way, you won’t mess up your hair or get sunburned.”

Li Feifei shot him a glare. “Why do you have to be so annoying? Mind your own business!”

With a resigned air, she put on the hat. She wasn’t stupid—cutting a hole might save her hair, but her scalp would roast under the sun.

Zhou Miao laughed heartily. His sharp tongue was a childhood habit. In his past life, he’d kept silent to control his emotions, but now, with his health restored, he spoke with a kind of defiant joy.

Joking or quarreling, he never held back.