The temporary clinic opened in a spare room with one table, two benches, and no shelves.
Qinghe placed the medicine crates on the floor and asked Jessa to show her the cleanest corner. The village healer carried a small set of instruments and pointed out which window stayed dry when rain came from the east. The room smelled of soap and old wood. A basin sat beside the sink, and a narrow cot had been borrowed from the shelter hall.
“Let’s sort by use,” Jessa said. “Not by who brought each thing.”
They made one pile for bandages, another for burn salve, a third for cough medicine and clean cloth. Qinghe opened the clinic record and wrote the source of each supply. Jessa asked that the local herbs stay apart from the traveling medicines until they had compared what each was used for.
The first patient was a grower who had pushed a thorn into her palm while clearing the east ditch. Jessa washed the hand and removed the thorn. Qinghe checked for swelling and cleaned the puncture. The grower asked if she should keep working the next day.
“Not with that hand,” Jessa said. “You can mark the water ledger or cook for the crew.”
