Lu Dongnuan felt her emotions were exceptionally stable—this had always been her strength, rarely shaken by any circumstance.
She still believed she could adapt to this kind of life.
She walked to the corner of the room, crouched down, and reached out to test the temperature of the metal stove—ice cold.
Cobwebs clung to the mouth of the chimney, and the firebox was filled with gray-white old ash.
Charcoal stacked beside it—seven pieces in all, each a different size, their surfaces rough.
The soreness and numbness in her body had not yet faded; every step felt as if she were treading on cotton soaked in vinegar.
There was anger.
It was like a cluster of faint blue flames, quietly burning at the pit of her stomach.
But she didn’t let it flare up; anger was useless, it would only scorch her judgment.
She pressed that flame down, compacted it, turning it into a cold, hard piece of charcoal.
She stood and walked to the sealed window.
The wooden boards had been nailed on hastily, letting in slivers of light—and wind—through the cracks.
Returning to the camp bed, she noticed the bedding was half new, blue and white checkered, washed so often it had faded.
She pressed her hand down; the cotton inside was clumped together, not soft, but thick.
The leg of the small wooden table nearby was a bit wobbly, its surface scratched and stained with dark marks, as if left by some kind of chemical reagent.
She lay there quietly, feeling her body slowly warm within the stiff bedding.
Her right leg had already recovered, with only the memory of that sharp pain lingering in her mind.
She didn’t touch the Ankle Strap again.
Footsteps sounded outside—dragging, heavy.
Not like Miss Li’s crisp, decisive stride.
“Knock, knock.” The knock was light, hesitant.
Lu Dongnuan sat up, quickly draping her coat over her shoulders.
“Come in.” Her voice was steady, with no trace of the huskiness of someone just woken.
The lock turned, the door pushed open a crack.
First in was the face of a sallow, haggard woman, about forty, eyes large but deeply sunken, filled with fear and wariness.
She carried a dented aluminum lunchbox, gripping the front of her tattered cotton coat tightly with the other hand.
Seeing Lu Dongnuan already sitting up and neatly dressed, the woman seemed relieved, but also more nervous.
“Li—Li-jie sent this,” she said hoarsely, placing the lunchbox on the floor by the door, then withdrawing her hand as if the floor might burn her.
“Water… I’ll bring it in a moment.”
Lu Dongnuan nodded, but didn’t pick up the lunchbox immediately; instead, she looked at the woman and asked, “How should I address you?”
The woman was startled, her eyes darting away as she replied, “Just—just call me Aunt Zhang.”
She glanced quickly at Lu Dongnuan’s face, then dropped her gaze and asked, “Are… are you really a Doctor?”
“I’ve studied a little.” Lu Dongnuan’s tone was gentle, “Is there anyone here who needs to be seen?”
Aunt Zhang’s lips moved, her fingers unconsciously twisting the hem of her coat, “There… there are a few with frostbite. Old Wang coughs badly, and also…”
She stopped, shaking her head, “Li-jie didn’t say. I shouldn’t talk too much. You should eat first.”
She turned to go.
“Aunt Zhang,” Lu Dongnuan called after her, still in a calm voice, “when you bring the water, could you bring a little extra? I’d like to wash my face.”
Aunt Zhang’s back stiffened.
She mumbled an “Mm,” then closed the door.
The lock clicked shut once again.
Lu Dongnuan got out of bed, walked to the door, and picked up the cold lunchbox.
Inside was half a box of something mushy, the ingredients unrecognizable, gray-brown in color, with a film of congealed oil on top.
It smelled faintly of starch and salt.
Beside it lay half a piece of hard, blackened coarse grain cake.
She showed no sign of distaste, walking back to the bed to sit down.
She picked up the cake, broke off a small piece, and put it in her mouth.
Rough, scraping her throat, it tasted of old grain and bran.
She chewed slowly, swallowing it with the mush.
The food was cold, sliding down her throat with an unpleasant chill, but she ate earnestly, mouthful by mouthful, until the box was empty and the cake was gone.
Before long, Aunt Zhang returned, carrying a plastic bucket with a bit less than half a bucket of cloudy water filled with ice shards, and an old towel whose original color was indiscernible.
She set down the bucket and quickly stepped back.
“Thank you,” Lu Dongnuan said.
Aunt Zhang shook her head and hurried away even more quickly this time.
Lu Dongnuan soaked the towel in the icy water, wrung it dry, and carefully wiped her face and hands.
The freezing water reddened her skin slightly, but it cleared her mind.
She set the bucket and towel by the door, then sat back down on the bed.
Time passed slowly in the quiet, broken only by the sound of the wind.
She listened to the muffled noises outside—the distant plaza was filled with a rhythmic commotion, as if something was being distributed; in the corridor nearby, hurried or hesitant footsteps occasionally passed, but no one stopped.
Until the sky was pitch black, with only a faint glow of snowlight shining through the cracks.
She didn’t light the stove—she had to save the charcoal.
“Squeak—”
The door was suddenly pushed open without a knock.
Miss Li stood in the doorway, carrying a kerosene lantern.
The flickering flame lit half her face in shifting light, casting a huge, swaying shadow behind her.
She was still dressed in the same thick, dark clothes.
The machete hung at her waist, the medical bag nowhere in sight.
“Come with me.” Her words were concise.
She turned to leave at once, as if certain Lu Dongnuan would follow immediately.
Lu Dongnuan didn’t hesitate.
She grabbed her coat and put it on, following after.
The corridor was even darker than during the day.
The light from the kerosene lamp reached only a few steps ahead.
Miss Li walked quickly, her footsteps echoing through the empty hallway.
They didn’t head for the main building, but instead followed the corridor of the laboratory building, turning into a more secluded corner.
The air was thick with the scent of chemical reagents, mixed with a faint smell of decay and disinfectant.
Miss Li stopped in front of a heavy iron door, a rusted “Biology Laboratory” sign hanging above it.
She pulled out a key and unlocked the door, entering first.
The inside was much larger than the equipment room.
Along the wall stood dusty lab benches and glass cabinets, with some instruments knocked askew.
In the center of the room, several desks had been pushed together to form a makeshift “sickbed.”
Someone lay on top, covered with a filthy blanket, only the top of a head with gray hair and a swollen, bluish hand exposed outside the blanket.
Two people stood by the bed—Aunt Zhang, hunchbacked, her fingers nervously twisting together, and a tall, thin man with frostbite on his face, who watched Lu Dongnuan warily as she entered.
“Take a look at him.” Miss Li shone the lamp at the person on the bed, gesturing to Lu Dongnuan.
She herself stepped back to the doorway, arms crossed, her hawk-like eyes following Lu Dongnuan’s every move.
Lu Dongnuan stepped closer.
Beneath the blanket, the old man was breathing rapidly and heavily, each breath raspy like bellows.
She gently lifted a corner of the blanket.
The old man’s face was purple and swollen, eyelids puffy, neck lymph nodes visibly enlarged.
His bare chest was blotched with large, dark red patches, hot to the touch, with blisters forming in places.
Most alarming was his left calf—swollen and shiny, dark purple verging on black, with a rupture in the middle oozing yellow-green, sticky pus, the stench overwhelming.
“When did this start?” Lu Dongnuan asked, her voice calm.
Aunt Zhang stammered, “Fi—five days ago… It started with a fever. He had a cut on his leg, but didn’t pay attention… then it became like this…”
“What medicine did you use?”
“We found some antibiotics and gave him those, but they didn’t work.” This time the answer came from the tall, thin man, his voice hoarse.
Lu Dongnuan examined the wound carefully.
The nature of the pus and the area of necrosis around it made her heart sink.
She reached out to feel the old man’s forehead—burning hot.
She gently pressed the edge of the swollen calf; even in his dazed state, the old man twitched in pain.
All right, enough pretending, she was numb by now—what was this, anyway, and how was she supposed to treat it?