The ferry’s belly groaned as forty tons of cold-chain logistics rolled down the ramp into Haikou. Old Zhao killed the diesel engine — silence fell like a tropical curtain. Humidity wrapped his windshield in a second skin.

He turned the key. The engine rumbled back to life. Somewhere ahead: Sanya, the sea, and another unloading dock.

“Truck life,” he muttered, patting the dented fender. “You made it.”

He never made it to the beach. Fell asleep in the cab with the window cracked, geckos chirping, a fan of humidity on his face. Dreamt of ice roads and snow tires — then woke to sunrise over rubber plantations.