Steel Worker Chen Tiesheng

At the age of thirty-six, I walked from the construction site into the machine shop. Sixteen years ago, I planted the first steel rod in my life. My fingers were exposed to blood blisters, my shoulders were exposed to the sun until they shed their skin, and they were worn to the point of calluses. In the smell of concrete and rust, I learned how to hold on for the rest of my life. Later, I carried a home and gave away the most important people with my own hands. Life is like a cold-working mold that never stops, bending, stretching, and quenching me repeatedly. I thought I would break. But no. This is a true record of a steel bar's self-rescue. There is no counterattack, only survival.