I couldn't tell how old Mr. Cheng was, but I could tell that his legs were in terrible shape.
He leaned on a cane with his right hand, and his right pant leg hung empty. When he walked, I couldn't even make out the shape of a leg. But he wore a shoe on his right foot, and though he limped, he was definitely taking steps. Maybe his right leg had atrophied, or he had a prosthetic. It could also have been because the room was too dim.
Liu Miao shone his flashlight on Mr. Cheng's back.
All the curtains in the room were drawn. Mr. Cheng walked unsteadily, but with the light, he no longer bumped into any glass bottles.
The glass bottle that had rolled to the doorway earlier had been pushed behind the door. As Nantian came in last and closed it, the bottle rolled a couple more times from the momentum.
The apartment had a very regular layout. The entryway was short, just a step away from the square living room.
The door on the right stood open, leading to the kitchen. A hallway ran along the left. The bathroom was on the hallway's left, the bedroom on its right, and the balcony at the end.
The apartment wasn't very large. At least, the part I could see wasn't.
Judging by the outside of the residential building, all the apartments here were small. Fifty square meters, or sixty at most.
Mr. Cheng gestured for us to sit on the living-room sofa.
There was no flooring or tile in the room, just the bare concrete floor of an unfinished apartment. The three-seater sofa didn't look very sturdy. There was no coffee table or television, and I couldn't see a dining table or chairs.
The place felt desolate.