Nan Zhi actually wasn’t in a good mood today. Nothing special, just the most common problem interns run into — when she gave an injection to a patient, the other person’s skin was very loose, and it was hard to find the blood vessel under the folds. She poked one extra time and got scolded.
The kind where they pointed and scolded.
Maybe it was exactly because she encountered this kind of thing too often that she went to help Song Qing — because she knew that someone who got poked seven times and still didn’t make a sound was very rare, belonged to an abnormal kind of tolerance.
Normally, people either frown or scold. There are even ones who hit.
Her teaching teacher said before, he once encountered someone with tattoos — on the hand, right where it blocked the vein. He poked several times and still missed, and that person even said his technique was bad. He talked back once, and the two almost got into a fight.
Nan Zhi didn’t say anything today, but the other person didn’t seem willing to let it go either — looked like they were about to start a fight, but because they were old, their movements were slow, and she easily dodged.
Even so, this matter still left her with a huge shadow. She had been gloomy for quite a while because of it. Now, she didn’t know if it was because she was amused by Song Qing’s reaction or what, but she unconsciously relaxed a bit, eyes bright as she spoke to him.
“I heard you’re really good at studying. Help me out, okay?”
They hadn’t even known each other for three hours, and she already exposed her capitalist true face — pulling out a document from her bag, squeezing the poor disabled young man dry.
Song Qing lowered his head and glanced at the document she pushed over. The first line on it said: [Nursing Adverse Event Record].
“This is really simple, just fill it out. Just write that the patient was hospitalized for a fracture, and accidentally kicked the bed when getting up at night to go to the bathroom. The patient thought it was nothing so didn’t say anything, and the next day the toe was red and swollen…”
Nan Zhi pointed at the document, telling him line by line how to fill it out. During the process, she inevitably leaned in a bit, and the other party also leaned his body, seriously listening to her words, nodding now and then to show that he understood.
Seeing him like that, Nan Zhi already knew — this matter was solid. From now on, there would always be someone to help her ghostwrite the paperwork.
He was injured and couldn’t do heavy labor. She didn’t plan on letting him do heavy stuff anyway. Of course, this kind of light work, she definitely wouldn’t let him off.
He still didn’t know his future pitiful daily routine and obediently asked, “Can I take a look at your handwriting before?”
Nan Zhi raised an eyebrow. “You want to imitate my notes?”
Song Qing nodded.
Back in school, he often helped others ghostwrite homework, copy poetry, songs, etc.
He’d earn a bit of money, enough to contribute to the agreement he promised his uncle and aunt. It made his life a little easier — sometimes he could even add a bit of vegetables to his steamed buns or rice.
Nan Zhi was somewhat surprised but quickly understood. When there’s no money, people will rack their brains to earn it. When she heard that her grandma’s long-term care would cost hundreds of thousands, she also prepared to take part-time jobs. She frantically searched for ways students could earn money — ghostwriting was one of them.
Nan Zhi rummaged in her bag again and found a piece of draft paper. It was the template she had looked up before writing, recording the important parts.
Like the names of the medications — having them would make it easier to write. She also had a pen. After circling the drug names and key points, she handed everything to him.
He was quite reliable — spread out the paper and pen at once and began writing with a rustling sound right there.
Nan Zhi sat opposite him, bored, waiting for his product.
During that time, the food was served, but Nan Zhi didn’t touch it. She waited until he finished writing, wrapped it up, capped the pen, and handed the document back to her. Only then did she pull the wontons over and push the other bowl to him to eat together.
Song Qing looked at the soup in front of him, a little surprised in his heart.
She waited to eat with me.
This was a kind of treatment he had never enjoyed before. Back at his uncle and aunt’s house, he was usually the one who cooked. He’d make one dish, and their whole family would sit at the table and eat that one dish. By the time he finished in the kitchen and came out, only leftovers were left on the table — what he ate was rough and cleaned out. Song Qing usually stuffed some pickled big-basin napa cabbage into a steamed bun — he could eat two or three.
When his aunt passed by, she would say he could really eat. He didn’t care either — already used to being mocked.
Song Qing lowered his head and picked up the spoon to scoop the wontons in the bowl.
Across from him, Nan Zhi added vinegar while glancing at the paper — the handwriting was almost exactly the same as hers. If she herself didn’t deliberately scrutinize the details, she wouldn’t be able to tell at all; others definitely wouldn’t either.
The capitalist was very, very satisfied. While stuffing it into her bag, she kindly pushed the meat on the plate to him as well.
“Quickly eat, it’ll get cold soon.”
After saying that, she didn’t forget to add a sentence: “Eat it all, wasting is shameful.”
Even though she said that, the person saying “wasting is shameful” only ate one bowl of pork rib soup, a few steamed dumplings, and more than half a bowl of wontons. She didn’t touch the rest — and there was still half a bowl of wontons left in the bowl.
It wasn’t for losing weight, she just really couldn’t eat any more.
She had low blood sugar — if she got hungry, she would get dizzy and fall. So she always carried snacks in her pocket. She didn’t eat a proper meal, but had stuffed two slices of bread in the afternoon while she had a break, so she wasn’t very hungry.
After Nan Zhi finished eating, she sat in the corner by the window, supporting her chin, looking outside. Afraid he would feel awkward, she didn’t look at him.
She herself didn’t feel comfortable being stared at while eating, so she figured he was the same.
Song Qing ate very fast. Before long, Nan Zhi could see in the reflection of the window that he had finished the steamed dumplings and wontons, and hadn’t touched the rest. Nan Zhi deliberately said she was very full, couldn’t stuff down another bite, and since food couldn’t be returned, it would be wasteful not to eat it. Only then did he continue — finishing the two small chicken legs, lion’s head meatball, and pork rib soup.
After finishing, he looked at the small half bowl of wontons she had left.
Nan Zhi noticed that regretful look in his eyes. After thinking for a moment, she prepared to ask the boss to pack it up. Before she could do so, she saw him reach out and take the small half bowl of wontons she left, pour them into his own bowl — not leaving a single one behind. Even the noodle bits floating at the bottom of the bowl, he scooped them all out cleanly.
Nan Zhi was stunned for a moment, then quickly realized that staring at someone like that was a bit rude. She came back to herself and got up to pay the bill. By the time she returned, he had already finished eating and had come out from between the narrow space between tables, parking the wheelchair at the entrance of the small restaurant waiting for her.
Nan Zhi naturally pushed the wheelchair and went with him toward where the car was parked.
—
Song Qing sat in the wheelchair, outwardly fine, but inwardly not calm. He was worrying — did that action just now make him look too stingy? Would she feel embarrassed?
He still remembered one time, a rich classmate insisted on treating everyone in the class to a farewell graduation meal.
He originally didn’t want to go, but that classmate was insistent that everyone had to be there, and insisted on dragging him along. He couldn’t refuse and ended up going.
Everyone was only focused on drinking and having fun. Almost no one ate the dishes. A lot of food was still intact after the meal. He felt it was a pity. He stayed until the end, and after everyone left, asked someone for takeout bags and packed it all up one by one.
Later, someone who forgot something came back and saw it. After he went downstairs, he unexpectedly saw those people hadn’t left — they were waiting for him down there. Or rather, they were trying to verify whether what that classmate had said was true.
“He really did pack it up.”
“Didn’t he see the streamers?”
Yes — the reason those dishes hadn’t been touched the whole time was because, during their game, they had accidentally spilled streamers into the food. Lots of long strips were flung from one end to the other. When pulled, spicy dishes and plain dishes got mixed together. They felt it ruined the flavor, so they didn’t eat it.
“So embarrassing. Wouldn’t the servers think we couldn’t afford food?”
Back then, Song Qing was carrying big and small bags of food and didn’t feel ashamed at all — in fact, he even felt a bit happy. So much food. If kept well, he wouldn’t have to worry about food and drink for days.
Maybe it was because at that time, he didn’t think those classmates mattered. Or maybe it was because back then, he was healthy and didn’t rely on anyone to survive — so he didn’t care.
He could calmly watch them get in the car, then sigh to himself:
Not having to worry about food and drink is really nice.
When all your hopes are pinned on one person, that person’s every move gets magnified. Even a small action like being stared at too long can make him overthink for a long time. It was the first time he realized — so being poor really can make you feel inferior, really can make you paranoid, always anxious and insecure.
He was worried that the person behind him would look down on him, and then abandon him. He wanted to explain his own actions, but couldn’t find any excuse.
He ate her leftovers — she would probably think he was disgusting, right?
Maybe she’d even think he was having some dirty thoughts. But actually, he really just thought it was a pity.
He had planted rice, harvested wheat — he knew how many steps it took for each grain to become food.
So he didn’t want to waste even a tiny bit. That’s all.
In Song Qing’s heart, a slow sense of regret began to emerge.
It was just a few wontons, really. If he had known earlier, he wouldn’t have eaten them.
While he was still overthinking, caught off guard, his body suddenly lightened — he was once again being carried up.
Only then did he realize: they had already reached the parking spot. It was time to get in the car.
Maybe it was familiarity after the second time, so this time, she also carried him.
She interacted with him as usual — did that mean she didn’t mind what just happened?
Song Qing was suspended in the air, waiting for her to set him down. But this time, it felt a bit different from before — slower, longer, like she was feeling his weight. Song Qing felt like he got jostled a bit.
“Sure enough, after being full, there’s strength — I can carry you easily now.”
Afraid she would drop him, Song Qing slightly tightened the hand that was holding the edge of her hoodie.
He felt like he was being teased, but he had no evidence.
Maybe she had gotten a sense of his weight, because very quickly, he was gently set onto the seat. That girl backed out toward the car door, but when she reached it, she paused for a moment — then instead of leaving, she came back inside, leaned in a bit, and lowered her head to lightly sniff at his shoulder.
His whole body went stiff. All the sharp words that had been used to describe him in the past came rushing to mind.
“He only has one bar of soap — uses it to wash his hair, his body, and his clothes.”
“Guess how much his soap cost? 5.9 yuan. So cheap.”
“I can already smell the soap on him.”
“So shabby.”
—
“It smells really nice — like charcoal.”
The storm raging in his heart finally stopped. Song Qing lifted his head and looked at her.
Charcoal scent?
Only then did he remember — the soap he bought was made from bamboo charcoal.
Burnt bamboo actually smells quite good. He had chosen it because he liked it. But somehow, when others talked about it, it turned into the smell of poverty. To the point that even he had forgotten what it originally smelled like.
It was pleasant — not unpleasant.
He didn’t have a body odor either. He clearly remembered — afraid of being disliked, every time he showered, he scrubbed nonstop, scrubbed and scrubbed. The washcloth tore, and his skin turned red and nearly broke. How could there be any smell?
It was just that those people bullied him for having no parents, and knowing he was poor and powerless to fight back, deliberately made things difficult and mocked him — that’s all.