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All this happened more than a decade ago. On the afternoon before Chinese New Year's Day I went to visit a friend in the suburbs of Chongqing. She lived on the top floor of the village office building. A flight of dark, narrow stairs led to a room where a table and several bamboo stools stood and a telephone hung on the wall. Beyond this room, separated by a mere cloth curtain, was the room where my friend lived. She had gone out, leaving a note on the desk by the window saying that she had been called away unexpectedly and wanted me to wait for her to come back. I sat down at her desk, picked up a newspaper and started reading. Suddenly I heard the wooden door of the outside room open with a squeak. Shortly after, I heard someone moving a bamboo stool. I lifted the curtain and looked, only to find a small girl of about eight or nine. She had a pale thin face, and her lips were frozen purple because of the cold. Her hair was cut short and she was dressed in worn-out clothes. She wore no socks, only a pair of straw sandals. She was climbing onto the bamboo stool, trying to get hold of the receiver; but she quickly withdrew her hand as if startled at the sight of me. I asked her, Do you want to make a phone call? Yes, she nodded as she climbed off the stool, I want to call the hospital. I want Dr Hu. Mum has just spat up a lot of blood! Do you know the phone number? I asked. She shook her head and said, I was just going to ask the Telephone Service for it .... I immediately looked in the directory beside the telephone and soon found the number. Then I asked her again; If I get the doctor where should I tell him to go? Just tell her Wang Chunlin's wife is ill, and she will come, she replied. | 
