After fleeing the famine, my older sister and I married the brother next door.

Madam Yang, having regained her composure, sat on the edge of the kang (a heated brick bed) and held Qingqing's hand, urging her to breathe deeply and slowly. "Mother's here," she told her, "the doctor will be here soon, don't be afraid." Qingqing followed Madam Yang's breathing, inhaling and exhaling rhythmically. Her body was still trembling, but she felt slightly better than before. Mr. Yang returned first, panting heavily as he pushed open the door. He leaned against the doorframe, taking several deep breaths before he could speak. Madam Yang didn't turn her head, her voice urgent and sharp, like a scraper cutting through bamboo, as she gave orders one by one: "Old man, go to the kitchen and boil plenty of water. We'll need it for the baby's birth; we can't run out. Boil several poached eggs for Qingqing with brown sugar in them. Eat them while she's still warm so she'll have strength. Take out that old ginseng from the cupboard; we might need it later."

Mr. Yang responded and turned to go to the kitchen. The fire in the stove quickly blazed up, the water in the pot bubbled and steamed, and the sweet aroma of brown sugar mingled with the smell of firewood wafted in from the kitchen. Qingqing lay on the kang (heated brick bed), gasping for breath in pain. Mrs. Yang held her hand in one hand and wiped the sweat from her forehead with the other. By the time the poached eggs were brought over, Qingqing was in too much pain to eat anything. But she knew that without food she wouldn't have the strength, so she forced herself to swallow bite by bite, tears welling in her eyes, but her lips remained taut.

The midwife arrived first. She carried a blue cloth bundle, her hair disheveled, one of her buttons fastened incorrectly, and her hat brim askew as she entered without her noticing. She came in panting, checked on Qingqing, and pressed her belly, saying she was only three centimeters dilated and would have to wait a while. She added that the mother seemed to be in good condition and could handle the strain. She then turned and instructed Madam Yang to prepare some more food, otherwise she wouldn't be able to push properly later.

After finishing the poached eggs, the chicken legs cooked in chicken soup were served. Qingqing gritted her teeth and ate a few more bites, oil dripping from the corners of her mouth, which Madam Yang wiped away with a handkerchief. The midwife laid out the delivery tools by the kang (a heated brick bed), repeatedly scalding the scissors in hot water, and stacks of clean cotton cloth. Basins of hot water were brought in one by one, filling the room with steam and the smell of blood.

When Yang Wenhu returned, he was pulling Dr. Shen from Jishetang by the hand. Dr. Shen's beard was still covered in medicine dregs, clearly indicating he had been dragged there while grinding herbs. Dr. Shen washed his hands, took Qingqing's pulse, and examined her eyes and tongue. He said her pulse was alright, but she needed to hurry; otherwise, the mother's strength would wane. Hearing Dr. Shen beside her, Qingqing felt a little more at ease. She gripped Madam Yang's hand tightly, following the midwife's instructions to push with each breath. The midwife's voice was steady and powerful, like a boatman's chant—inhale, clench, push down, the momentum must not falter. Qingqing's bones were creaking, sweat soaked the bedding beneath her, and her lips were bleeding from biting them. Madam Yang placed a handkerchief between her teeth, saying, "Don't bite yourself, bite the handkerchief instead."

When the first baby's head emerged, the midwife's voice suddenly rose—"It's out, it's a boy!" Everyone in the room breathed a sigh of relief, but the midwife didn't stop, saying there was still one more, don't relax. Qingqing closed her eyes, gripping Madam Yang's hand tightly, tears sliding from the corners of her eyes into her hair, but she didn't loosen her grip. The midwife's palm remained on her belly, stroking it in circles, saying, "Almost there, almost there, the little one is eager to see his mother." After an unknown amount of time, the second baby's cry also rang out, weaker than the first, thin and delicate, like a kitten's meow, but finally awake. The midwife wrapped the second baby up, smiling and saying, "Congratulations, congratulations, two boys, mother and children are safe."

Qingqing lay slumped on the kang (a heated brick bed), feeling utterly drained, too weak even to lift a finger. Madam Yang brought the children to the edge of the kang for her to see. The two little ones were wrinkled and red, their eyes closed, their little mouths twitching as if searching for food. Madam Yang moved the children aside; the warmed goat's milk had already been fed to them. Madam Yang held Qingqing's hand, saying that although the children were small, they would recover well, and she shouldn't worry. Qingqing wanted to say something, but her eyelids grew too heavy to stay open, and she fell asleep before she could finish speaking.

Doctor Shen prescribed medicine for Qingqing and gave her some instructions, including, "During your three-month postpartum period, try not to breastfeed." Madam Yang noted it down. "We've already found several ewes; we'll milk them to feed her." Doctor Shen stroked his beard, nodded, and gave a few more instructions on the new mother's diet and daily life before leaving with his medicine box. The midwife also left some instructions, took her tip, and left with profuse thanks.

The lights in the courtyard were still on, and the water in the kitchen was still warm. Yang Wenhu sat on the edge of the kang (a heated brick bed), holding Qingqing's hand, which was still trembling slightly. Qingqing was asleep, her brows slightly furrowed, her breathing steady. She had truly been frightened, but he couldn't be. He had his mother, his father, the midwife, and the doctor—each one had held him up. He looked at Qingqing's pale face, gently brushed aside a strand of hair damp with her sweat, and whispered in her ear, "You've worked hard," his voice so soft it was as if he didn't want to startle her.

Mr. Yang had been busy in the kitchen all afternoon, while Mrs. Yang sat on the veranda to rest, watching the last rays of dawn fade into the distance. After a long while, Yang Wenhu came out, saying he was going to the Chen family to deliver the good news. Mrs. Yang stopped him, saying it was already dark and the road was difficult to travel; they should go tomorrow morning. They would surely be happy to hear the news, but traveling at night was unsafe. For your sake and for Qingqing's, go tomorrow morning. Yang Wenhu stood at the courtyard gate for a while, then turned back. He went into the inner room, squatted down beside the cradle, and looked at the two children lying side by side. They were so small, their faces no bigger than his palm, their nostrils twitching slightly. Yang Wenhu reached out and touched one of their little hands; the tiny fist immediately clenched his fingers and wouldn't let go. He squatted there, motionless for a long time.

Sunlight streamed through the paper window, falling on the two swaddled babies. Their silhouettes were projected onto the paper, tiny and lying side-by-side, like two kittens whose eyes hadn't yet opened. The Chen family was unaware that two sons had been added to their household. Tomorrow morning, Yang Wenhu would drive his mule cart to Nanshan Village to announce the good news. The Chen family's courtyard would be bustling with activity; Mr. and Mrs. Chen would be beaming with joy, Su Xiaoyin would be busy stewing chicken soup, and Shi Tou, Aji, and Afu would be vying to hold their nephews. But tonight, it belonged to the Yang family. Only the moonlight and two unnamed children.