In the autumn of 1962, deep in Maoer Hutong, I curled up on the ground unable to move. Yi Zhonghai was so anxious that he blushed and rushed to the hospital, but Jia and Zhang refused to admit it. Xu Damao squeezed in with a straw stick in his mouth to watch the show. Silly Zhu pushed aside the crowd and looked down at me. I wanted to cry out that it hurt, but my throat was filled with the smell of blood.
