In the main room, Liao Zhong half-sat, half-leaning against the corner of the kang, dozing lightly, careful to keep his back pressed against the wall as if to hide it.
He was exhausted.
Since the spring hunt he had carried grievous wounds, slept not a wink, and had not dared close his eyes for a single instant.
Even now, when he slept he gripped Ping'er’s wrist like a man holding a lifeline.
Ping'er, after sucking on the sorghum candy tucked in his sleeve, had stopped crying and slept soundly.
Outside the main room, a woman’s tears flowed unchecked, but she did not dare make a sound.
She clutched the man’s arm and mouthed a plea: save Ping'er.
The man slowly shook his head.
Liao Zhong was an officer at the Seeking-Dao stage.
Even badly wounded as he was, he was not someone they could easily handle.
Moreover, Ping'er lay at his side — one wrong move and the child would die.
Suddenly a stifled groan of pain came from the main room, as if Liao Zhong had rolled in his sleep and struck his wound.
The man seemed to think for a moment, then fetched a packet of powdered medicine from the side room.
He lowered his voice: “I’ll go treat his wound. We’re all grasshoppers on the same rope now — if he heals quicker, he may leave sooner.”
The woman seemed to come up with an idea.