The heavy snow is like a knife, splitting the sky and the earth.
Shen Zhiwei stepped on the knee-deep snow and walked alone in the wilderness.
The cold wind was wrapped in ice and slapped her face, like a dull knife scraping bones.
She lowered her head, held the medicine pouch close to her chest, and used her body temperature to protect the last few life-saving grass roots and bark - angelica root, tangerine bark, and a handful of dried moxa, all of which were dug out of the dead man's arms.
Her fingers had already turned purple from the cold, but she still subconsciously touched the bloody words on the cover of the medical record: "Don't call it medical... In this troubled world."
The old doctor's words before he died still echoed in his ears.
The riot last night was just a massacre caused by half a piece of moldy multigrain cake.
A child rushed to grab food and was trampled on and broke his spine; a woman held her baby clothes and begged for alms, but her throat was torn out the next second.
