The “good-pup savings book” lived in Zhou Yang’s phone notes. He’d named it, drawn the little table himself. Dead simple: date, item, plus or minus, one line each.

“Good earns a stamp. Slip-ups lose one,” he explained, smiling, pages turning behind him. “Seven buys a reward. You pick — reasonable, and I’ll do my best.”

Lin Wan took it dead seriously. Screenshotted the page, made it her wallpaper, checked every night: how many today? How many to go? She even hand-copied the whole ledger into a notebook, because ceremony.

Day one: tail on time, plus one. Breakfast on time, plus one. Stockings intact, plus one. Three in a day. She reported glowing: “Master! Three stamps! Flying start!”

“Keep it up. Full in a week at this rate.”

First week: five. Victory in sight; she walked bouncy. Second week: two slips in the no-talking game, lost one. Down to four. Furious at herself. That night she knelt ten extra minutes: “I’ll earn it back next week.”

“No rush,” he said. “Stamps are earned, not suffered for. Slow. Being good is its own reward.”

Seven complete — Thursday evening. Counted three times. Seven bright-red “good”s. Messaged him bursting: “SEVEN! All here! Want my reward! Now!”

“What do you want? Think. Don’t waste it.”

“Already thought.” She’d drafted it ages ago. “A voice message. The tuck-me-in kind. ‘Good pup worked hard today.’ Thirty-eight seconds. No — as long as possible. Loop it all night.”