The first watch of the night had arrived.
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Wang Jing's father, Wang Guozhu, leaned on a crutch, inching forward with difficulty, the beads of sweat on his forehead and the bulging veins telegraphing his pain.
His step-mother, Wang Yuqin, sat to one side picking over dry string beans, glancing his way from time to time without any expression.
Stopping in his tracks, Wang Guozhu gasped for air and looked toward his wife, "Ah Qin, pass me a dry towel to wipe my back, please; it's all soaked."
"Get it yourself!" Wang Yuqin replied without lifting her head.
Glancing at the towel rack, Wang Guozhu sighed and moved toward it with difficulty. He had grown accustomed to such cold indifference in that time.
At first, he was angry, he was furious, he protested, but what he got in return was only doubled indifference and mockery, which made him clearly realize that if he wanted dignity, he had to stand up on his own.
