After clinic hours, Yan and Qinghe shared tea in the family courtyard. The kettle sat between them on a low table. A faint trace of soil remained under Yan’s nails, and the strip of cloth around his palm had loosened at one edge.
He adjusted the knot. “I’ve been thinking about Hanlo’s title. Being called a saint felt good.”
Qinghe waited.
“It made the furnace deaths and my survival seem to mean something to other people. I liked the applause. Now that people were hurt by the story, the memory embarrasses me.”
Qinghe set her cup down. “Do you want me to answer as your physician or as your friend?”
“As yourself.”
“I am myself either way. But I want to know what you need from me right now.”
He considered that. “Tell me what you think. Don’t make it a diagnosis.”
