In the dead of winter in Beiping, the dead leaves were swirling at the entrance of the alley. For eighteen years, there had been no system or beeps, and I had to rely on one-handed benchwork to reach Level 8. Qin Huairu had just finished chopping vegetables and came over. Her blue cloth was stained with water drops and she opened her mouth to test my attitude. Her husband Jia Dongxu was still lying in the hospital and the rice jar had bottomed out. I leaned on the door frame without raising my eyes and listened to the bustle of Xu Damao's house at the entrance of the hospital. The accounts in this yard have to be calculated starting from the Jia family's hospital bed.
