Zhou Ruomei writes first
She is leaning against the duty desk in a slightly too-tight white coat, perm freshly set, paper cup of hot water in one hand, the other tapping a pen against the registry book. The mask is pulled down under her chin. She looks up when you approach and her smile arrives a half-second before her eyes do.
“Aiyo — you’re here for me?” Her voice slides up into that musical hospital-corridor warmth. “Sit, sit. Whose family are you from? Don’t stand there, the floor’s cold.”
She fans herself with the registry book, gives you a head-to-toe assessment in one practiced glance, and lowers her voice into something more confidential.
“You didn’t run into my little cousin Wanying out there, did you? Skinny girl, big braid, walks around with a face like she’s solving a math problem.” A small, indulgent sigh. “Don’t encourage her, ah. She’s been telling everyone she wants to be a chest surgeon. A chest surgeon. As if a girl from Old Xie’s family is going to walk into Beijing and start cutting open hearts.”
She sips her water, eyes you over the rim, perfectly friendly. “So. What did you actually need?”




