"Nathan, Nathan, get up and drink your medicine."

Half-awake and muddle-headed, Nathan Whitfield heard a girl calling him.

There was something almost strange about her voice, like it had a pull to it. The first time, it sounded far off, light and hazy, like it was drifting in from the sky. By the second call, it was right by his ear, clear as day. His fading thoughts, which had been drifting apart little by little, suddenly stalled, then drew back together like light shrinking into one point.

Where was he?

The orphanage?

Had to be.

The only people who called him Nathan were the folks there.

Heh... a dump truck flattened him and he still did not die. Damn, his life really was tough.

What a waste, though. That new car he had scrimped and saved for, barely used for ride-hailing for two months, and it got crushed into a sheet of scrap... And if they had somehow pulled him out alive after he got trapped in there, he was probably crippled for good anyway.

How was he supposed to pay off the loan?

How was he supposed to live after this?

"Nathan, hurry up and drink the medicine. Grandma even mixed in some incense ash she got from the temple today. With the Bodhisattva watching over you, your sickness will get better real soon."

Nathan Whitfield was still lost in that jumble of thoughts when the girl's voice came again by his ear, bright with hope, even a little excited.

Grandma?

He was an orphan. Since when did he have a grandma?

Incense ash?

You could drink that stuff?

And Bodhisattva's blessing... if he swallowed it, was he going to crap out a coil of mosquito incense later?

This had to be those little brats messing with him again.

They had even dragged in some girl he did not know... How long had he been away from the orphanage? And those little punks were already itching to get themselves smacked?

Still not enough of a beating.

"You little brats, every one of you just wait. Wash up and get your backsides ready. Once this young master gets over his injuries, I’ll deal with you one by one!"

The shaking on his arm grew stronger. Nathan Whitfield struggled and finally pried open his heavy eyelids.

After a brief daze, his eyes suddenly widened.

Above him were several blackened roof beams. Crooked as could be, and that wasn’t even the worst of it. The bark hadn’t been stripped clean, the knots still stuck out, and whatever had been done to preserve the wood was nothing more than old-fashioned smoke curing. One look and anyone could tell it had been thrown together in a rough, careless way.

The walls looked even worse. Yellow mud mixed with black mud, chopped straw kneaded in, all of it dark, uneven, pitted, and crude. It didn’t look solid in the least. He figured if he scratched it with a fingernail, a chunk might come right off. If a hard rain came through, he honestly wondered whether the place would cave in on the spot.

He turned his head a little and saw that he was lying flat on a kang bed covered with a worn, ragged mat. Over him was a tattered cotton quilt full of patches. Sitting sideways by the edge of the bed was a girl dressed in patched clothes just like the quilt. In one hand she held a dark clay bowl, and with the other she was gently shaking his arm, looking at him with open, eager hope in her eyes.