"Run, he's the child of a monster…"
Ying wiped away the mud on his face and continued to walked home wordlessly, holding his bulging pockets. Inside his pockets were wheat grains, provisions, dirty dry grass, a small pack of salt, and some coins that would last him a month…
That year, Ying was nine, and his parents had been dead for two years…
Ying's parents were farmers from the poorest county in China. They had inherited their ancestors' small farming plot, and they considered themselves lucky if they could feed themselves for the day. In their small village that was isolated from the outside world, if there was no external financial support, poverty crossed generations.
