Qinghe asked Ren to tell her his name again.
“Ren,” he said. His voice was thin, but his eyes followed her.
“Good. You’re in the clinic. A spear opened your thigh, and you lost a lot of blood. I need to check the wound before we decide how to treat it.”
Ren nodded. He lay on the treatment table, his face pale. Mao Lin had brought the blue bowl and a clean cloth, and held them near Qinghe’s elbow.
Yan’s forearm throbbed beneath the shallow cut. He kept his hands away from Qinghe’s work. She pulled back the cloth and inspected the spear wound. Its edges were torn, with grit pressed into the cut. Blood had soaked through the improvised wrap.
“Does this hurt?”
“Yes.”
“Here?”
