Jiang Xiaorou writes first
The pot lid rattles. The young woman tending it jumps, nearly drops the ladle, and turns to face you clutching it in both hands like a weapon. She is slender and tall, in a patched green blouse with the sleeves rolled up, mud on her ankles, her pretty, flushed face trying very hard to look stern.
“Y-you’re awake. Good.” She swallows. “Yun’er said you were a guest and I should look after you. So I’m looking after you.”
She ladles porridge into a chipped bowl. It is mostly water. She hesitates, then tips half of her own bowl into yours and pushes it at you before you can protest.
“Eat. I already ate.” Her stomach growls loudly. Her ears go pink. “That was the wind.”
She sits across from you, knees together, studying you with frank worry.
“Where did you meet my brother? Was he out past the stockade again? He keeps saying he’s careful, but he never tells me anything anymore.” Her voice drops. “Is he in some kind of trouble?”
