Fu Zhewei turned around and took out the small package wrapped in oil paper from his pocket.
He handed the paper bag to his mother and said, "Mom, don't ask yet. This is fever-reducing medicine. Feed it to Qingqing quickly."
Dong Yulan's eyes subconsciously fell on the small oil-paper bag.
medicine?
Her heart skipped a beat.
But then, her eyes uncontrollably swept over the pile of things on the table - the pork belly and pig's feet emitting an enticing meaty aroma, the round duck eggs with a green sheen, the bulging cloth bag filled with fine rice, and the red tin can that was still conspicuous in the dim light... malted milk!
These... these things... protected him...
Her pale lips moved violently, and countless questions and worries were stuck in her throat, almost bursting out.
Did my son do something stupid? Where did this money come from? Could it be...
However, when her gaze met her son's calm eyes again, the words that were on the tip of her tongue were swallowed back.
In the end, Dong Yulan said nothing.
With trembling hands, she took the medicine bag, then turned around and staggered hurriedly towards the inner room - Fu Qingqing's room.
The so-called room was actually just a small space separated by a worn-out reed mat.
The walls made of rammed earth were mottled and the cold wind blew in through the cracks in the walls and the holes in the roof, bringing a biting chill.
Fifteen-year-old Fu Qingqing lay on a broken wooden bed, covered with a worn-out quilt with countless patches and the cotton wool becoming matted and blackened.
The only simple stove in the house, made of iron sheets, was placed next to her bed. A few pieces of low-quality coal were burning in it, emitting faint heat and the pungent smell of coal smoke.
But this insignificant amount of heat was not enough to dispel the iron-like coldness in the room.
After a few days of recurring high fever, Fu Qingqing's already frail body was further drained.
Her little face was sallow, and her cheeks, which had once had some baby fat, were now noticeably sunken. Her lips were chapped and peeling, and had a sickly look to them.
Her breathing was light and slow, with only a faint rise and fall of her chest.
A fifteen-year-old girl should be a flower in bud, but now she is like a dead grass about to wither in the severe winter, dying, with only the last bit of life left.
When Dong Yulan saw her daughter's appearance, the tears she had been holding back burst out and slid down her haggard cheeks.
"Qingqing... my Qingqing..." She choked, stretched out her trembling hands, and opened the oil-paper medicine bag.
The paper bag rustled as she shook it, and it almost fell to the ground several times.
At this moment, a steady and strong hand reached out and gently covered the back of her hand.
Fu Zhawei had followed in at some point, holding a rough porcelain bowl with a hole in it. In the bowl was malted milk that had just been mixed with hot water. The rich, sweet aroma instantly filled the cold air.
"Mom, let me do it."
He gently put the bowl of malted milk in his mother's hand and said, "Take this and feed it to Qingqing later."
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