The smell of disinfectant mixed with rust gas makes people's brains ache.
Zhongli Buddha was wearing a yellowed white coat, and his gloves were stained with the blood of an unknown patient. The hands of the wall clock moved stickyly to six o'clock. He ripped off his rubber gloves and threw them into the trash can, which was already filled with blood-stained cotton balls and empty pill bottles.
"Dr. Zhong, the patient in bed No. 3 Vomited again..."
"It's time to get off work."
He didn't look back and pushed open the broken glass door of the clinic. The nurse's muttering came from behind, mixed with the patient's suppressed moans, and they were all locked behind the door.
The street was like a dirty shroud. Neon tubes flickered in the dusk, illuminating the oily ground. Zhongli Buddha Rope walked along the sidewalk, his steps dragging. For five years, it has been this route every day - from the clinic to the rental house, and from the rental house to the clinic. Like a programmed machine.
The flea market is just around the corner.
He should have walked straight over, but out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of the roll in the corner of the stall.
The scroll is dark purple, and the edges are worn to reveal the linen underneath. The stall owner is an old man with missing front teeth, squatting by the coal stove cooking noodles.
"How much?"
The old man held out three fingers without raising his head.
Zhongli took out thirty banknotes. The old man took it with greasy hands and continued to stir his noodles.
