"I've had enough to eat, let's go out. You can't just nest at home on New Year's Eve, can you? What do you think?"
"Sure!"
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Saint Rodu, Red Street.
Familiar streets, unfamiliar people—Cheng Daqi brought Zhao Hongjin here on New Year's Eve.
The latitude of Saint Rodu is not very high, but the winter wind is still harsh. Under the assault of the cold wind, the once extensive tent shelters have been greatly reduced.
The cold is the homeless's greatest enemy. Once the temperature drops, those with already precarious health easily fall ill, and the doctors who are keen on prescribing painkillers can't offer them much treatment.
Every winter, it has become the norm for a few hundred people in Saint Rodu to freeze to death.
Perhaps, in the minds of those 'masters,' the thought is not absent that the more who die, the less pressure they'll have next year.
