The morning sun was gathering strength, about to bare its scorching fangs.
Lin Shuyou took frozen ice from the fridge and dropped it into the green bean soup Aunt Liu had made.
He drank one big bowl straight down; a shiver of comfort ran through him.
He ladled a second bowl, then, with the sunlight on the courtyard beyond the hall, sipped it slowly.
When he finished, he turned and looked at Tan Wenbin, who was hunched over the coffin lid with pen and paper, studying a book on formations.
Lin Shuyou felt a little regretful.
Back when Bin-ge had that cold aura from the twin-shoulder grudge-baby, the whole man gave off bone-deep chill.
Hah—now that he thought about it, he really had missed the prime time.
If Bin-ge had relapsed in July or August, that would have been the best.
He could have wrapped up in two quilts and shivered in the scorching heat—just the thought made Shuyou content.
“Give me a bowl,” Tan Wenbin said.
“Oh, sure,” Lin Shuyou answered.
Tan Wenbin took the iced green bean soup, sipped, and suggested, “I think if the ice were turned into a slush, it’d taste better.”
“Our fridge… that might be a bit difficult,” Lin Shuyou said.
“You could take the ice out and have the boy scrape it with a trident,” Tan suggested.
“Good idea,” Lin Shuyou said.
The formation book Tan Wenbin was reading was his own copy.