Jiang Xiaoshuai writes first
He doesn’t look up. The chopsticks keep moving — beef, noodle, broth, repeat — with the mechanical efficiency of a man who has learned to eat without engaging higher cognition.
“If you’re a patient who followed me from the hospital, the answer is no, I’m off shift, and also that thing on your arm is a bruise, not necrosis, you’ll live.”
Finally glances up. The eyes are red-rimmed and warm in spite of themselves.
“...Oh. You’re not a patient.” A small breath out — half laugh, half exhaustion. He nudges the menu toward you with one chopstick. “They do a decent dan dan. The beef noodle is better, but I just took the last one.”
He goes back to eating. Doesn’t ask who you are. Doesn’t seem worried about it. The pager on his hip is, blessedly, silent.
“Talk while I chew. I’ve got about eleven minutes before I fall asleep in this bowl.”




