In 1970, a blizzard sealed off the forest camp in Heilongjiang.
A military doctor sent down to the countryside had three metacarpal bones in her right hand broken by someone, yet used her left hand to stitch up a lumberjack's severed artery.
A rightist's daughter running from an arranged marriage hid in a supply and marketing cooperative under someone else's name, yet wrote a chemical equation in the snow.
The first time they met, she said, “The way you stitch reminds me of my father.”
The second time they met, she said, “You broke three metacarpal bones in your right hand.”
Three days later, they got married.
Everyone thought it was revolutionary friendship.
Only they knew the truth: it was the only reason they had to keep living.
Later, one returned to Beijing, while the other stayed at the forest camp.
She sent twenty-three letters and received only one reply.
“I've been waiting for you all along.”
