Yang Yong lowered his head and looked the woman over.
Her short hair was soaked with sweat and stuck to her cheeks.
Her shabby clothes had been washed pale, and the cuffs were frayed.
Her apron had several patches, their stitches fine and neat. Clearly, someone skilled with a needle had sewn them.
Her appearance reminded Yang Yong of the middle-aged woman who had lived next door before the apocalypse.
They were both the classic sharp-tongued, softhearted type.
Their words were merciless, but their hearts were softer than anyone's.
Yang Yong waved a hand, signaling for the woman to get up.
The gesture was casual, without much emotion.
The woman cautiously raised her head and glanced at Yang Yong. Only after seeing that he really showed no intention of holding it against her did she hurriedly stand.
She rose too quickly and stumbled, catching herself against the stove beside her before she regained her balance.
"Get on with your work."
Yang Yong's tone was flat. With that, he stopped looking at her and swept his gaze around the kitchen.
Everyone was busy.
Someone was tending the fire, its light flickering across their face.
Someone was pounding rice. The rice in the stone mortar was already half crushed, giving off rhythmic, muffled thuds.
Everyone had something to do. Not a single person was idle.
Yang Yong looked around but found nothing ready to eat, so he asked, "What is there to eat?"
"Oh, there's a pot of sweet potatoes that's already cooked. I'll get you a few."
At his words, the woman hurriedly turned and lifted the lid.
A cloud of steam billowed up, carrying the distinctive sweet aroma of sweet potatoes throughout the kitchen.
She reached in, took the three largest sweet potatoes, and turned to hand them to Yang