Qinghe cleaned Yan’s palm in the infirmary annex. Candidate Sun sat on the bench with her knee wrapped, the brass token placed between them on a stool.
“I’m sorry I ruined your run,” Sun said.
Yan turned his hand over. The scrape was raw across the heel of his palm, and grit had caught in the shallow break. “The token survived. My score is already posted.”
“I didn’t ask about the token. I thought you’d hurt your hand.”
“It stings more than I expected.”
Qinghe held his wrist still while she washed the scrape. The water carried a line of gray dust into the basin. Yan flinched once when the grit came free.
She used a clean cloth to blot the skin, then checked the scrape under the lamp. A thin line of blood welled near the heel of his thumb.
“Can I still hold a tray?” he asked.
