Qinghe put his water bottle down and stood, making room while Hanchuan released Zhiyi’s seat belt.
She rested a hand on her husband’s shoulder as he bent to lift her, and Qinghe moved ahead of them to clear the aisle.
The living compartment felt strangely quiet after the shouting outside. Light fell across clean upholstery and a folded blanket. A cup sat in its holder beside an unopened packet of crackers, exactly where someone had left it before they reached the burning bus.
Hanchuan settled Zhiyi on the cushioned bench while Qinghe arranged the support beneath her leg.
"Does that need to be higher?" Qinghe asked, keeping his hand on the cushion until she had settled.
"That’s enough," Zhiyi replied. She let out a careful breath and caught Hanchuan’s hand before he could straighten. "Stay with me for a moment."
Hanchuan sat beside her, allowing her to lean against him. When he brushed her hair away from her cheek, she turned slightly into his hand.
Qinghe drew the blanket over her legs. Her eyes were clear, and the tightness around her mouth had begun to ease. He left them together and returned to the front, where Jingwei was listening to the outside microphone.
The woman with the flashlight stood near the table, facing a man who had come from behind the hanging sheets. He held the packets taken from the driver’s pockets.
"Put those back," she told him, holding out her hand. "They belong with the rest."
"My family paid for his fuel too," the man replied, closing his fingers around them. "We’ve already given you our share."
"So has everyone here," the woman said. "You can’t take yours back without talking to the others."
"Then give everyone theirs," he argued. "We’ll find our own rides."
The man with the wrapped forearm stepped closer to the table.
"If we do that, there won’t be anything left to pay for another collection," he said. "There are still people waiting to be brought here."
The other man looked toward the road.
"That wasn’t a collection," he replied. "He was making us pay to bring our families here, then charging them before he’d let them on."
People began getting up from their bedding. The woman placed her flashlight on the table as they approached, looking from one face to another.
A man at the back pointed toward the hanging sheets.
"How much food have you still got behind there?" he demanded.
Before she could answer, someone caught the nearest sheet and pulled it down.
Shichen watched the fabric fall across a sleeping mat, uncovering three plastic storage boxes, folded blankets, and a bucket with a brick holding its lid in place.
An older man sat beside them on a low stool.
The falling sheet caught his bowl, spilling some of its contents onto his trousers. He held it away from himself while the man who had pulled the sheet down stepped over the mat.
"Open those," the man said, pointing at the boxes. "Let us see what’s left."
The woman with the flashlight pushed past him and crouched beside the older man. She took his bowl, set it down, and helped him move his feet clear of the wet fabric.
"Those supplies are for everyone," she said as she stood. "We count them every morning. The numbers are on the table."
"Then there shouldn’t be a problem showing us," the man replied.
Shichen had heard that tone in meetings, usually from someone who had already decided he was being lied to. Several people had gathered behind the man, and some were carrying bags.
"You’ve all seen the counts," the woman reminded them.
"We can’t eat a list," someone called from the back.
The man pulled the lid off the first box. Small packets filled about half of it, their wrappers matching the ones given to the minibus driver.
Someone reached over his shoulder. The woman caught the outstretched wrist before the hand reached the food.
"Wait," she said. "If we’re dividing it now, we need to make sure everyone gets some."
The person pulled free with two packets in his fist, and others moved closer.
Shichen straightened in his seat. The man who had opened the box tried to hold them back, but someone shoved him against the stool. The older man lifted his feet as people crowded over his mat.
The woman tried to replace the lid. A man caught it and pulled it from her hands.
"Stop pulling at it," she told him. "You’ll break the lid!"
It struck a pillar, and the box scraped across the concrete as someone dragged it closer.
Shichen glanced toward the windshield. Dust still crossed the road, but he could make out the opposite wall and the base of a streetlight.
"We should be able to leave once Zhiyi’s back in her seat," he told Zeyu. "I can see more of the road now."
"Give it another minute," Zeyu replied, studying the view. "I want to make sure it stays that way before we pull out."
Jingwei kept the building on one display and the space around their vehicle on another. Nobody had approached them, and Shichen hoped they would remain too busy with the boxes to notice the mobile base.
Behind the table, the man with the wrapped forearm held a second box against his chest while two people pulled at it.
"This is for the people who haven’t come back yet," he protested, backing into the unfinished wall. "Leave something for them."
"They aren’t here," one of the men replied, tugging harder.
"They will be," the man holding the box insisted.
"You don’t know that," the other man said.
The box fell between them, spilling packets over the mat and beneath the stool.
People crouched to gather them. A woman who had stayed back opened her bag and began filling it, slapping away another hand when it reached for the same packet.
Near the entrance, the mother whose daughter had gone back on the minibus tried to stand. The boy beside her offered his arm, but she shook her head and pointed toward the food.
He hesitated until she pointed again. Then he left the backpack beside her and hurried over.
Shichen lost sight of the woman with the flashlight until Jingwei changed the camera angle. She had been pushed against the table and was holding its edge to stay upright.
When a man lifted the bucket, she forced her way toward him.
"Put that down," she called, trying to reach his arm. "There’s a crack in the bottom. You can’t carry it like that."
The man kept walking.
The brick slid from the lid, and water began running down the front of his trousers.