Yang Yun's home consisted of two rooms, though they were just a pair of dilapidated adobe shacks.
Although they had received 200,000 in compensation for Zhang Feng's death, He Qiaolian was such a miser she didn't spend a single cent on improving their living conditions. Instead, she had taken over the house meant for her eldest son's marriage, forcing Yang Yun and her child, now a widow and orphan, into a side room. The moment Chen Xiaobei stepped inside, a damp, musty odor hit him. But Yang Yun was a very clean woman; despite the shack's state, she kept it tidy and well-organized. Five or six small kittens were scampering around the edge of the heated brick bed, their meows adding a touch of warmth to the desolate room.
He walked over to the heated bed and carefully laid Yang Yun down. The bed was hard, and with her injuries, the movement made her beautiful face twist in pain.
