The tasks were completed, but the cast were worse for wear.
The sun dipped low, casting orange streaks across the village, and the group trudged back to the meeting point like soldiers returning from an unnecessarily tragic war. Their clothes were dusty, hair was frazzled and dignity was… negotiable.
But they had envelopes.
Some thick, some thin, one suspiciously limp. These envelopes contained their earnings, the golden currency upon which the success of their guest room as well as the purity of their pride depended.
The director stood waiting, clipboard in hand, radiating the type of cheerfulness only found in those who did not suffer.
"Excellent work, everyone!" he chirped, as if they hadn't nearly died fetching water, battling peach fuzz and questioning their life choices in the cornfield.
"Let us tally your earnings."
The cast gathered around a wooden table. One by one, they emptied their envelopes.
Zhou Zhenyu and Sun Qiaolian:
