The rain was falling lightly, as if someone had sprinkled a handful of salt grains on the roof of the tin shed in the back alley. Chen Duba squatted beside the garbage pile, with black mud between his fingernails. He was picking at the blood clots on the medicine dregs. The blood stuck to his fingertips. Instead of wiping, he scratched the rag with the rainwater. The red letter is slanted but clear: Cirrhosis of the liver·Misuse of paclitaxel.
