Snow falling into a dead man’s eyes makes no sound.
When Xu Qiye wakes, the first thing he hears is a faint tapping.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
It isn’t a clock. A copper tag hangs beneath the shaft of a cart, knocking back and forth in the wind. The ox cart lies overturned by the ditch, half its medicine cases scattered in the snow. The red crosses have turned black with mud. Xu Qiye lies on his back between a wheel and the frozen earth, a stiff hand pressed against his chest.
Its owner wears the gray padded coat of a courier. Shrapnel has torn away part of his left cheek, but his lips are still moving.
“The bridge…”
