The scorching sun baked the oil out of the asphalt road.
Dongfang Jicang licked his chapped lips and dug his fingers into the cracks of the collapsed shelves of the abandoned supermarket. The dust fell down, revealing half of the plastic bottle.
Water.
There is also a small half bottle.
The ones that are turbid and dusty are more precious than gold in his eyes.
He grabbed it, opened it and smelled it - there was no strange smell. Carefully stuff it into the innermost layer of the ragged backpack and put it close to your chest. When I stood up, my vision went dark.
Thirty kilometers.
It took him four hours to walk back to the camp. The blood blisters on the soles of the feet were broken and scabbed, and every step felt like stepping on the tip of a knife. But the corners of his mouth were grinning.
The camp is in the open space in front surrounded by scrap cars and iron sheets. I can see people.
"Jicang is back!"
Someone shouted. A few people looked over, their eyes numb. These days, no one cares about anyone.
He went straight to the small shed made of plastic sheeting in the corner.
"Xiaoya," his voice was hoarse, and he took out the half bottle of water, "Look, I found..."
The words stuck in my throat.
His girlfriend Lin Xiaoya stood there, next to a man wearing a half-worn camouflage uniform. The man held half a piece of compressed biscuit in his hand and was handing it to her.
