The heavy rain came down like it was free, soaking the mud in the alley to a pulp, and mixed with the sour smell from the trash can, it penetrated into Song Weiyang's nose. He huddled under the roots of an old locust tree, holding a half-finished bottle of Erguotou in his arms. The cheap alcohol burned his throat and made him feel tight, and his eyelids were as heavy as lead.
