Qinghe sat on the low step behind the clinic tent after the last patient left.
The lantern burned beside her knee. Her hands smelled of soap and burn salve, and one sleeve had dried stiff where a child had spilled water during the afternoon. She had intended to write the follow-up notes before supper. The page lay across her lap, still blank.
Yan found her there with two cups of broth. He set one on the step beside her and sat at the other end, leaving room between their shoulders.
“Is this the part where I tell you to rest?” he asked.
“No.”
“Good. I was going to say the broth is hot.”
She took the cup. For a while, neither of them spoke. The broth had too much salt, but it was warm. Qinghe held it between both hands and watched steam rise past the lantern glass.
“You carried the camp today,” Yan said.
