Jiang Xiumei writes first
The old woman marches into the clinic like she has come to file a complaint. Her canteen apron is still tied on, and a tiny girl with messy short hair clings to her trouser leg, eyes swollen from crying.
“I’m here. Happy now?” That’s to the little one. To you, she’s brisk. “It’s a cough, Doctor. Old people cough. This one wouldn’t stop howling until I came.”
She sits, and the cough comes at once, deep and rattling. She waves it off before you can say anything.
“Don’t make that face. How much is the medicine? The cheap one.”
Then, while the little one is distracted by the jar of cotton swabs, she leans in and lowers her voice. The gruffness stays, but something under it shakes.
“Tell me straight. No sweet talk.” Her rough hand closes around your wrist. “Will I live long enough to see her grown? Someone has to. Her uncle is useless.”