It should feel pretty nice

Jiang Xun's lips twitched slightly. As he turned to leave, he realized he was clutching something tightly in his hand.

A stalk of foxtail grass.

The stem had softened in his sweaty palm, and its fuzzy seed head trembled upright, brushing lightly across his palm.

Jiang Xun stared at the grass for a long while, his head heavy and his feet light, his brain feeling as though someone had poured a bucket of paste into it.

Someone wiped his face with a warm towel, their movements gentle. Their fingertips were covered in rough calluses that left a faint, prickling itch as they brushed his skin.

The hand paused against his forehead to check his temperature. It felt cool, easing some of the burning heat surging out from deep in his bones.

Jiang Xun wanted to open his eyes to see who it was, but his eyelids were too heavy. Before his consciousness slipped back into darkness, he heard only a voice saying, "It's all right now."

The voice was low and deep, not particularly comforting, but his heart slowly settled back into place all the same.

As though, if this person said it was all right, then it really was.

The rain finally eased in the latter half of the night.

At three in the morning, the SUV dispatched by the station plowed through mud halfway up the calves and drove into the Village Committee courtyard.

The doors opened, and two doctors in white coats stepped out, followed by several staff members carrying equipment cases.

The doctors took the sleeping Jiang Xun's temperature and examined him again, then said the fever medicine had taken effect. After another night of observation, he should be fine.

The director's heart, which had been in her throat all night, finally settled. Leaning against the doorframe, she let out a long breath.

Early the next morning, the sky cleared.

Washed by the rain, the mountain air was especially fresh and clear. Sunlight spilled through gaps in the clouds, making the puddles in the courtyard sparkle.

Jiang Xun slowly opened his eyes to the sight of the dust-covered fluorescent tube on the ceiling of the Village Committee office.

He moved his fingers and discovered something was pressing down on the back of his hand.

Looking down, he saw Duan Qizhao asleep over the armrest of the chair, his blue-haired head planted firmly on the back of Jiang Xun's hand. A small puddle of drool had soaked a large patch of his sleeve.

Jiang Xun pulled his hand free in disgust, wiped the drool off its back on Duan Qizhao's shoulder, then sat up and looked around.

People lay sprawled all over the office floor. Some huddled in corners wrapped in military coats, while others had fallen asleep slumped over desks. The sound guy was snoring against an equipment case.

Jiang Xun blinked. His brain's startup progress bar crept along, and he slowly became aware that his whole body felt sticky. His back was covered in sweat, and his clothes clung uncomfortably to his skin.

His head no longer hurt much, though he was still a little dizzy.

"You're awake?!"

Duan Qizhao jolted awake and thrust his face right in front of him, close enough for Jiang Xun to see the pimple on the tip of his nose.

"Back up a little." Jiang Xun's voice was hoarse. "You're spitting on my face."

Rather than backing away, Duan Qizhao grew even more worked up. "Do you know how high your fever was? Almost thirty-nine degrees! You nearly fried your brain! If it hadn't been for Shen Wangjing-"

He abruptly stopped halfway through, his expression turning a little awkward.

Jiang Xun propped himself up on his arms and sat up. The cartoon bear cooling patch slid off his forehead and landed on the blanket.

"What about Shen Wangjing?"

"Nothing." Duan Qizhao shoved an enamel mug into his hands, speaking suspiciously fast. "Drink some water first."

Footsteps sounded in the corridor, and the director walked in carrying two thermos flasks, some color finally back in her face.

"The road's open." She set the flasks on the desk. "The station's vehicles have reached the village entrance. They brought medicine and food."

Duan Qizhao perked up. "Food? What food?"

"Bread, milk, and a few boxes of self-heating rice."

Never in his life had the words "self-heating rice" sounded so sweet to Duan Qizhao. He was about to charge out to grab some when he suddenly stopped and glanced back at Jiang Xun on the bed.

"Don't worry. Since you're a patient, your big bro will grab you a box too."

Duan Qizhao left in a gust of wind. When he returned, his jacket pockets were bulging and his arms were full of boxes of braised beef self-heating rice. He kicked open the office door, looking for all the world like a bandit returning from a robbery.

"Make way, make way! Patients first!"

He spread his spoils over the low table beside Jiang Xun's bed, tearing open the rice packaging with loud ripping sounds. Once he added water to the heating packs, they bubbled and puffed white steam. Soon, the smell of braised beef filled the room.

Duan Qizhao had never thought self-heating rice could taste so good.

Squatting beside the chair with the box of braised beef self-heating rice in his hands, he ate as though he were enjoying an imperial feast.

The rice grains were distinct, the sauce thick, savory, and fragrant. Though the diced beef was so small it took a magnifying glass to find, after days of mushy vegetables and coarse steamed buns, this mouthful tasted downright lifesaving.

He let out a muffled sound of heartfelt appreciation, his chopsticks shoveling at top speed.

Jiang Xun leaned against the head of the bed with another box of rice. He poked at it twice with his chopsticks, picked up a small mouthful, and chewed very slowly.

His fever had broken, but his appetite had yet to return. His stomach felt as though someone had stuffed a wad of cotton into it, and anything he ate left it feeling blocked.

He rested the box on his knees and turned to look at Duan Qizhao wolfing down his food.

"Where's Shen Wangjing?"

Duan Qizhao's chopsticks paused for an instant. His mouth was stuffed with rice, his cheeks bulging like a hamster's.

He quickly chewed twice and swallowed, then said vaguely, "Maybe next door. Grandpa Shen's there."

Jiang Xun set his rice on the low table, picked up the other unopened boxes of self-heating rice, and stood.

"Hey-" Duan Qizhao's chopsticks hung in midair as he watched Jiang Xun carry off the precious boxes he considered his strategic food reserves. "Those were the rations I was saving for the next few days!"

Jiang Xun did not look back.

Sunlight slanted through the corridor windows onto the floor, which had been soaked by last night's rain, drawing up a thin veil of moisture.

The door to the next room stood ajar.

Jiang Xun pushed it open with his shoulder. Grandpa Shen was dozing in a wicker chair, sunlight falling across his deeply wrinkled face. His breathing was steady, and he slept soundly.

Someone lay on the bench against the wall.

Shen Wangjing was curled on his side on the bench's narrow wooden slats, one arm tucked beneath his head and his other hand hanging over the edge.

He had changed into dry clothes, but his hair was still damp, a few stray strands clinging to his forehead.

"Hey." Jiang Xun crouched and reached out to nudge his shoulder.

Halfway there, his hand suddenly stopped.

Sunlight spilled through a gap in the curtains onto Shen Wangjing's profile.

His brow bone was high, his nose straight and prominent, his thin lips lightly pressed together. In sleep, most of the coldness that kept people at a distance had faded from his face.

Jiang Xun stayed crouched there, his hand hovering in midair, and tilted his head to study him for a good while.

The man was usually either chopping wood or hoeing the fields, or else saying, "Behave yourself," with a stern face. It was rare to see him this quiet.

So quiet that it made him want to reach out and give him a poke.

It should feel pretty nice.

Jiang Xun's itching fingers had only just touched Shen Wangjing's face when the hand dangling over the edge of the bench suddenly rose and clamped unerringly around his wrist.