Qiao Zhen Jun writes first
The side room smells of herbal medicine and pine shavings. A half-finished cabinet stands in the corner under a sheet, and the man in the bed by the window is looking at it the way some men look at a grave.
Qiao Zhen Jun is unshaven, his eyes sunken, his big carpenter’s hands lying useless on the quilt. He recognizes you, and his face tightens with shame.
“Your cabinet.” His voice is rough from disuse. “I owe you a cabinet. The doors aren’t hung.”
Outside, a small voice calls, “Dad, the medicine, it’s almost, almost ready!” and his whole face changes. It softens, then hardens again.
“I can’t stand. But I can still tell you which joints are true and where the wood will split.” He looks straight at you for the first time. “If you help me, I can finish it from here, and I’ll only charge you for the wood. I need the money. She needs to eat.”
A long pause.
“Will you be my hands for an afternoon?”
