The quiet in the ward is broken only by a buzzing fly. Occasionally, it bumps the ceiling and crashes into the glass window. It bangs into the window; the buzzing never stops.

“Hungry yet?” a young woman slinks towards the sickbed. “Hungry yet? Tell me. Squeeze my hand if you are.”

A few mumbled, inarticulate sounds bubble from the sickbed; the voice is dry and hoarse.

“I can’t hear you,” says the young woman. “Don’t try to speak, just squeeze my hand. Are you hungry or not?”

“Bzzzzzzzzzz!”

  Mumbles arise again, mixed with gasps.

  Sounds emanate from a toothless gaping mouth that seems as though it has never closed—a deep black hole. Saggy cheeks form two small pits on the leather of the face. Above the black hole, there is a wad of thick gauze and a mess of bandages where the nose should be, from which extrude two plastic tubes running. Above this pile of white medical mess, stare two deeply sunken eyeballs, seemingly congealed in their sockets, unable to move. With the eyelids taped, the head must move for the eyes to meet the object of their gaze. Finally hitting the mark, they stare like a fish, at this particular moment locked onto the face of a young woman bending over the bed.

“You don’t have to speak, just squeeze my hand,” the young woman says, shaking the withered hand. “Do you want to eat? Squeeze my hand if you do.”

  No response, not even the mumble, only the cavernous mouth and the vacuous eyes.

  “You don’t want to eat? I want to; I’m starving!”

 “Bzzzzzzzzzz!”

She sorts through the jumble on the bedside table to make room, opens a plastic bag from which takes out a lunch box. She lays it on the table, taking out a pair of disposable chopsticks, splitting them deftly with one hand. The buzzing fly skims over her head. It’s huge, robust even; its entire body is royal, metallic blue and full of power, like an airplane.

  “A fly!” shouts the young woman, slamming the lunch box shut: “Nurse! Nurse!”

 “Yes, coming!” The woman with glasses bursts in from the next room, her footsteps a series of light, energetic beats. Her white coat is too big, but it’s still not enough to cover her flexible waist. “What’s going on?”

“A fly!”

“Stop making a fuss,” says the nurse, “I thought it was something serious!”

“Not serious? How can a hospital have flies? It’s the ICU! How can you let flies in?”

  “That’s enough. Did I let it in? It’s none of my business, really.”

  “Shouldn’t you take care of it at least?”

  The nurse picks up a newspaper off the bed, rolls it in a paunchy fist and moves in the direction of the fly. After a few heavy swipes, the fly disappears, gone without a trace.

  “Okay, it’s gone,” she throws the paper to the floor. “From now on, don’t shout unless it’s about a patient.”

  “I can’t even have a quiet lunch,” the woman grumbles, pulling a stool closer to the small square table. “The hospital food is terrible.”

  “Stop eating, then,” the nurse says, from the door. “Nobody invited you.”

  “His son invited me. You think I’m happy here? If wasn’t for the damn money… ”

  “How much does his son pay you?”

  “Fifteen kuai an hour. That’s low, right?”

  “You should be happy. An ordinary caretaker only makes ten kuai an hour.”

  “But this guy is rich,” the woman sighs, “You’ve met his son right? He drives a BMW.”

  “Saw him twice.”

  “His son is super rich, but the richer they are, the stingier they are. Other relatives pull out thirty or forty easily. You think my job is easy? I brought this up to him several times, but he still won’t fork over a raise. Rich people are so tightfisted,” she spits indignantly.

  “You should be content,” says the bespeckled nurse as she opens the door and leaves.

  The caretaker sits down again to eat. It’s quiet on the ward, other than her forceful chewing. The crunching and slobbering stops. She sees a withered hand sticking out of the white comforter. The hand seemed to sneak towards the nose, like a lurking saboteur “What is your hand doing?” she asks. “What is it doing?”

  The moving hand stops beside the open mouth. The head turns slowly with the eyes fixed on her, like two dry wells—dry but deep.

“Listen!” she shouts. She stands up, throws back the covers and puts the rebellious hand back inside the blanket as she tucks him in. “Good boy, we can’t pull the tubes out, can we? Your life will be in danger, you know that, right? Even if you pull them out, they will have to be put back anyway.”

She sits back down, resuming her lunch, while the dry well-like eyes fix on her, still as death.

“If you don’t feel like eating, you should go to sleep,” she says. “Eat when you wake up.”

  Something creeps under the white comforter. This time, both hands appear. And all of a sudden, they’re clasped, fingers folded on the sagging chest as if begging.

  “Why did you stick your hands out again? Put them back. Behave, or you will be tied up!”

The begging continues, never stopping.

“Such a pain; Can’t you wait until I finish my lunch?

“Bzzzzzzzzzz!”

  The fly returns, more gregarious and energetic than ever, on a crash course into every stable object, like a panicking cartoon character.

  “So annoying,” she mumbles. She covers her half-eaten lunch and turns to the bed. “What do you really want to do? Thank me? Do you want to thank me?”

All she gets is that fixed stare and those pleading hands.

“You don’t need to thank me. All you need to do is do what I say. That’s the best kind of gratitude… Do you miss your son? How long has it been since he showed up? ”

 “Bzzzzzzzzzz!”

  The withered hands begin to shake like a hen pecking at grain. She angrily grabs them and forces them down.

“That’s enough. You must miss your son. Squeeze my hand once if you do.”

She feels a faint tremble.

“Turns out you want to see your son. I told you; he is too busy to see you. After I finish lunch, I will give him a call, telling him you miss him. Will that do? But you have to behave right now and listen to me. Do you hear me?”

The only response she gets is an open month and a pair of staring eyes. Suddenly, the miniature airplane seems to lurch into Kamikaze mode. With full force, it buzzes across the room and begins to dive bomb the floor. Suddenly, she realizes something is wrong. She lifts her head to sniff the air. There is an unusual smell. She throws back the white cover to reveal the naked body underneath. It is waxy-yellow, emaciated; bandages wound about the chest. A tube extends out from the bandages. Under the body, flows a yellow and brown pool. 

“Oh, my God!” screams the caretaker. “How did you shit the bed? I told you before, you should let me know! Why didn’t you say anything? You even managed to get the catheter out. You just… nurse!”

A tall nurse comes to the room and says: “Yes, yes! What happened this time?”

“Look at him, he got his catheter out. Thank God he still has the drainage tube in.”

The nurse can’t help but frown at the scene and scolds her, “What kind of caretaker are you?”

“What kind of caretaker? It was just for a moment when I was having lunch... I can’t even get a break for a quiet lunch!”

“Whatever, tidy this up quickly! Change the whole bed.”

The waste is cleaned, the ass wiped and the bedding changed. The caretaker grumbles through her work. The body on the bed is pliant, as light as a piece of worn-out cotton filling, adept at manipulation: unfold, fold, turn over, turn back, lift and lie down. With everything settled, the nurse returns with a tray in hand.

“Xiao Cai, have you finished your meal? Come over when you do.”

“Sure!”

The sounds of light, energetic footsteps return, and the previous nurse with glasses bounds to the sick bed.

“You, help me hold his legs. Yes, bent and wide apart. Hold still. Good, just like this. This might hurt a little; do bear with me.”

The tall nurse spreads two of her fresh bamboo shoot-like fingers, grabbing the shriveled eggplant-like genitals, swiftly inserting a plastic tube through the urinary passage. Suddenly, the open mouth twists; the corner of the mouth twitches convulsively. From that deep of the black hole, an ambiguous moan sings out.

“Don’t pull it out again,” she warns. “Otherwise, you’ll have to suffer again.”

While the nurses work, the caretaker fights off the miniature airplane. She waves the pile of newspapers, besieging and chasing the fly across the ward. She swats everywhere while shouting: “Go on buzzing, go on flying, go on running away; I’ll find you wherever you hide! Die! Die!”

At first, the fly seems to have considerable strength: dodging and hiding, appearing and disappearing with mysterious ease. She has no chance of hitting it. As the fly’s territory is littered with fragile things—transfusion bottles, the monitor and the patient—the caretaker can’t make a real swat worth a damn; she’s only bluffing. But the nature of the fly leads it to its doom. When scared, it crashes into the glass window, believing it to be a vast world where it can fly free: its only escape. However, every time it rushes toward that hope, an invisible obstacle stops it. Its buzzing slowly turns sad and tragic. The fly might be wondering: “It’s a simple thing, what’s stopping me?” Such a physical and mental toll (if a fly has such a thing) puts the fly in a state of confusion.

Despite the ruthless slaps of the newspaper, it flutters desperately against the window, up and down, lamenting for its fate. In despair, it turns for a counterattack, throwing its body right at the face of its opponent. “Ouch!” Shouts the caretaker, shrinking back.

As Nurse Cai attempts to extract sputum from her severely ill patient, she holds a plastic tube with one end of the aspiration canal above the bed, the other end stuck in her patient’s mouth. She twists the tube while shoving it further down, evoking spasms and rough coughs.

“Yes, cough hard! Cough it out; don’t swallow it,” says Nurse Cai. Afterwards, she removes the tube and shows caretaker the fruit of her labor. “Look, this much. It would have been very dangerous if I didn’t suck it out.”

The caretaker lets out a sudden scream: “Oh, my God!” She extended a pointing finger.

“Why are you always making such a fuss? What happened?”

The skinny skeleton on the sick bed trembles and writhes violently. A long cough smothered. His face turns purple. The withered hands waved in the air, trying to a scratch for life.

“What’s wrong?” asks the panicking Nurse Cai. “What’s happening?”

“The fly,” the caretaker says through trembling lips, pointing. “The fly, it’s in his mouth! Suck, suck quickly!”

“Ah!”

Nurse Cai goes back to what she was doing without hesitation. The tall nurse runs to help without hesitation. After the panic, the robust body of the royal blue fly is dragged from the deep black of the open mouth, accompanied by empty dry coughs and feeble gasps.

“It’s all your fault,” says Nurse Cai, vexed.

“How is it my fault? Did I ask the fly to go into his mouth? Don’t blame other people just because your hospital is unsanitary.”

“Enough of you! I tell you, if you are still looking for trouble, I will ask his son to fire you.”

The ward is quiet again, no disturbances. Seeing the half-eaten lunch on the table, the caretaker feels a little sick. Her appetite is gone. She bends over the sick bed.

“You’ve shit and pissed; it should be time to eat, right?”

She receives only that same emotion in those same eyes, that same stare, the mouth letting out of few mumbles.

“You don’t have to speak, just squeeze my hand. Do you want to eat? Squeeze my hand once.”

The withered hands fold across the chest, begging again.

“You want to thank me, right? You are welcome. I am thanked if you eat your meal.” She holds that hand and asks: “Do you want to eat? No? Do you want to see your son? Should I call him?” She stood up and said: “I will call him, but I don’t know if he is free. I can’t guarantee he’ll show up.”

She turns with her back to the door as if she is forgetting something. Then, she sees those withered hands shaking again, those eyes staring straight at the ceiling as if the stubborn gaze is trying to penetrate the layers and layers of the buildings floors, right into the sky above. The dry wells are clearly filled with tears.

“Who are you thanking now? Put your hands back. Listen to me, be a good boy,” she says at his bedside, thinking for awhile. “No, you have to be tied up. Nurse!”

Those light, energetic footsteps echo again, but the tall nurse shows up at the door.

“What now?”

“He’s not behaving with his hands.”

“Tie them up then.”