He Weng gripped the peeler tightly, stripping the potatoes of their skins. In front of him, a large basin filled with dark, murky potatoes—this was their noon meal. Usually, they only had cornmeal buns with pickled vegetables; the potatoes today were a special addition because the factory boss's family was celebrating, and they were given a bag of sprouted potatoes to supplement their meal.
The chilblains on his hands throbbed painfully when they met the cold water, itching and burning, especially where many sores had cracked open. Whenever he moved, his hands would ooze blood, a frightening sight, yet in this godforsaken place, there was no real treatment. At most, he and Old Hu, the cook, would seize the chance while preparing meals for the boss and the enforcers to rub some ginger on their wounds or occasionally boil ginger water for both to wash with, though such opportunities were few.
