"Hmm, I heard it too." Qin Yu's expression remained calm, and she glanced at the rearview mirror. A dozen meters away, there was a common small transport truck, somewhat old and not new, driven by a man and a woman, middle-aged. The man was greasy, untidy, and fat, while the woman was a typical shrewish wife, but the man's face had scratches on it.
Scratches?
These kinds of people are common, but their conversation was not so ordinary. Of course, the most important thing was the sound coming from inside the truck.
Jiaojiao does a carp stand and asks, "Should we do anything about it?"
Qin Yu: "They're also going to the city, just call 110."
