Not long after Dahua left, a burly man with a face full of pockmarks appeared in the kitchen.
Widow Zhang hadn't lit a lamp, but there was a fire on the stove, and the firelight spread across the man's horrific face, making him look all the more menacing.
This man was none other than Wang Mazi.
Wang Mazi craned his neck to look at the stove and sneered crookedly: "Oh, cooking, are we?"
Widow Zhang swallowed hard and backed all the way to the back of the stove, murmuring a low assent.
Wang Mazi stepped forward, lifted the pot lid, and his brows instantly furrowed: "This pot of rice is quite substantial, isn't it!"
Widow Zhang's voice trembled: "Haven't had white rice in days, so I, so I cooked a bit more."
Wang Mazi laughed, a mocking laugh.
Every time he laughed, Widow Zhang's body shivered; her back was against the stove, her fists clenched tightly, and her gaze drifted to the not-so-far-away kitchen knife with several notches.
