His father said gloomily, “A little over eight million.”
His mother didn't reply.
Ye Yuhang lay on the bed with his eyes open, staring at the yellowish water stain on the ceiling.
He had already looked at that lottery ticket more than twenty times last night.
He had tucked it inside an old Mechanical Repair Manual, which he had then hidden beneath the bed board.
It was only a thin slip of paper, yet in his hand it felt like a red-hot iron, so scorching that he hadn't dared close his eyes all night.
Eight million four hundred and twenty thousand.
In the year 2000, that wasn't a sum you could describe with a mere “he struck it rich.”
On the county seat's busiest commercial street, a shopfront of around twenty square meters cost only seventy or eighty thousand.
You don't need to write about your pale and faded outfit every time you appear.
No wonder no one is watching. Do you have to show off in front of that manager? Why do you have to write that for what I wrote earlier? Shouldn't making money be done quietly?
You don't need to write about your pale and faded outfit every time you appear.
No wonder no one is watching. Do you have to show off in front of that manager? Why do you have to write that for what I wrote earlier? Shouldn't making money be done quietly?