Dongfang Minghui stared, dumbfounded, as Little Fatty spoke one word at a time. She scratched her head in frustration, turning her lovely hair into a bird's nest. "My heavens, Little Fatty, can you write? Why don't you write down what you want to say? If that doesn't work, draw something and express it through pictures. How about that?"
Little Fatty considered it briefly, then nodded lightly.
Still uncertain, Dongfang Minghui asked again, "Drawing-you can do that?"
Little Lecher and Pig Immortal Grass were both itching to lash out. They had endured Little Fatty's way of speaking all night. Could anyone imagine what it felt like to have an eagerly anticipated answer ground into nothing, word by word? Worse, they had to force themselves to listen patiently, only to grow drowsy along the way. After nodding off and waking again, they found Little Fatty still speaking at the same leisurely pace.
Dongfang Minghui hurriedly handed Little Fatty her spare paper and a pen, urging, "Quick, draw."
She suddenly remembered a television drama she had watched years ago, in which an illiterate girl conveyed what she wanted to say through pictures. But the person interpreting them had to be clever, too. Dongfang Minghui couldn't help worrying that she might fail to interpret Little Fatty's drawings. Then she remembered that Little Lecher and Pig Immortal Grass were there to check her work, and reassured herself, "Don't worry, don't worry. Three bungling cobblers can still match one Zhuge Liang."
"Hey, hey, Little Fatty, are you writing?" The drawings Dongfang Minghui had eagerly anticipated never appeared. Instead, Little Fatty held the pen and neatly wrote a line of words, her handwriting beautiful and precise, as though she had practiced for years.
Watching her writing posture, Dongfang Minghui couldn't help being amazed.
"Wait, let me see."