Outside the soup kitchen, the voices of the people were clamorous.
Some asked the people in front if there was enough porridge left, if it would be enough for them to get their share; some asked if the porridge was thick enough, not just thin gruel; some watched others receive their porridge and leave with bowls in hand, clicking their tongues in envy.
Amidst this clamor, a voice stood out clearly: "Please take my pulse."
Old Yao, who had been writing a prescription, paused with his hand suspended over the paper. He slowly looked up in the direction of the voice and saw Chen Ji smiling broadly. Even at the age of ninety-three, Old Yao was momentarily stunned.
After a moment, he glanced at the person keeping watch outside the soup kitchen, nonchalantly placing his fingers on Chen Ji's pulse: "Is your head feeling unwell?"
Chen Ji, half-amused, half-frustrated: "What are you saying? My head is perfectly fine."
