Jiang Rou struggled to shove the pheasant into her backpack. The bird thrashed, its tail feathers brushing against her wrists, which were already bright red from the cold.
"We’ll have hot chicken soup tonight. But we need to find a sturdier cage; this little thing is too much trouble."
The canvas backpack was stretched into sharp angles, and intermittent pecking sounds came from beneath the fabric, as if the bird were protesting this sudden "abduction." Jiang Rou squatted down to tighten the straps, her fingertips grazing the freezing snow. In the depths of midwinter in Beidahuang, even the air felt brittle enough to snap.
Chapter 90