The military identity proves quite useful, and with the hint from Feng Qingxue’s earlier words, the young woman doesn’t suspect a thing.
Actually, even if she had suspicions, she wouldn’t say anything; his reasons were perfectly legitimate.
The middle-aged man, carrying an empty burlap sack and holding fabrics and brown sugar, with industrial coupons and money in his pocket, can’t help but smile. This is his first ti trading with soone without being accused of speculative profiteering. The feeling is unusually refreshing, and he thinks he can follow suit in the future, claiming to bring gifts to friends and relatives in exchange for a return gift.
The weather is freezing, and the wild ga has long been frozen solid, with no blood dripping. Feng Qingxue throws them directly into the bamboo basket, as there’s nothing else in it except for a piece of oilcloth as padding.
After waving farewell to the diligent young woman, Feng Qingxue quickly puts the pheasants and hares into her space once out of her sight.
There’s no other way; having forty-odd pounds pressing on her shoulders is truly exhausting.
Turning onto a residential alley, Feng Qingxue hears a sound of desperate pleading. Looking closely, she sees a young woman, around twenty-seven or twenty-eight, disregarding the freezing conditions, kneeling in front of a tightly shut courtyard gate, kowtowing repeatedly. Her forehead is bruised and bleeding, mixing with her streaming tears, "I beg you, sister-in-law, I beg you, save Xiaowo. Xiaowo is your own son, please!"
Her clothing is very sparse, just a cotton jacket and pants, patched upon patched, extrely shabby, yet very clean. Although her face is haggard, skin and bones, with scars on her cheeks, her features are delicate, only now dirtied by blood.
A voice from behind the door, belonging to an impatient middle-aged woman, says, "Begging is useless. I’m not a doctor to dispense dicine and treat illness. Those spawn of the ’Five Black Categories’ are better off dead; living only wastes food. Deng Hongling, I severed ties with your family long ago. Don’t bother . Even if you die in front of my door, I won’t take the brat to the hospital."
Deng Hongling’s eyes reveal despair as her pleas go unanswered. She can only get up and, dragging a la leg, stagger away.
Feng Qingxue sighs softly, knowing without asking what the situation is, and follows Deng Hongling away from the person she was pleading with. Picking up her pace, she catches up to her, "I’m a doctor. Where is the child you’re talking about? I’ll help take a look."
Deng Hongling turns to see her, a flash of disbelief on her face, and speaks urgently, "You’re a doctor?"
"Yes, I’m a doctor, and I’ve brought so common dicines too."
Deng Hongling doesn’t wait for her to finish and pulls her along, running with a limp to the back of a public toilet near the grocery store. In front of them is a small shabby house, even simpler than the one old Mr. and Mrs. Xu used to live in.
Feng Qingxue follows inside, seeing a little boy lying on a wooden bed, covered with a thin, tattered quilt, his chest almost without any movent.
The boy’s exact age is indiscernible, as he is emaciated and frail.
"Doctor, doctor, please take a look at him," Deng Hongling pleads softly, ignoring the blood on her face.
Feng Qingxue sets down her bamboo basket and takes the boy’s pulse, imdiately knowing that his unchecked high fever is due to starvation and cold, but his life isn’t in danger. She quickly retrieves a syringe and dication — actually from her space — "Turn the child over so I can give him a fever-reducing injection."
Deng Hongling quickly steps forward to turn her nephew over.
After the injection, Feng Qingxue puts away the syringe and takes out a small bottle of alcohol, "Pour the alcohol into your palm and rub it on the child’s limbs, chest, and underarms. I’ll go buy you so porridge. He needs strength from the porridge to fight the high fever."
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