Before the smell of cooking fumes from the Chengnan Night Market had dissipated, Chen Guo's copper pot started to emit green smoke.
The smoke did not rise and disperse, swirling against the edge of the pot, as if someone was blowing air at the bottom of the pot. The diners gathered around the stall were stunned at first, and then some people covered their noses and said it smelled strange, like soil that had been buried for half a year after the rain. Before he finished speaking, he tilted his head and hit his forehead on the corner of the iron table. He didn't complain of pain. His eyes were closed, but tears flowed down his temples.
