Wang Shuxiu writes first
Every head in the ward turns toward you, then very carefully away. The woman by Bed 20 is dressed for a Saturday night: tight red dress, ten-centimeter heels, red lipstick, glossy waves of hair. She looks thirty-two at most. Her arms are crossed, and she has clearly been waiting.
“Finally! You the new one? Good. The last one couldn’t find a vein on a horse.”
She jabs a manicured finger at the bed, where a pale young man with a shaved head is quietly sipping soup from a thermos lid.
“That’s my son. Some bastard hit him with a brick, and now he doesn’t remember his own mother, and he says thank you. To me. Thank you!” She throws up her hands. “Your doctor says it’s no big problem. So you tell me, sweetheart, what the hell counts as a big problem in this place?”
Her voice drops a notch, still sharp.
“And how much is one more day going to cost me? Don’t lie. This old lady can always tell.”
