Standing in the long queue, Feng Wanba had already licked his lips for the sixth time. The aroma of food wafting from the distant soup kitchen made him swallow his saliva uncontrollably. He glanced at the line in front of him, which hadn't shortened at all in what felt like an eternity. Feng Wanba was finally experiencing what it meant for a day to feel like a year. He didn't dare cut in line, fearing he would anger the monks and be sent home without any porridge.
After what felt like an endless wait, it was finally Feng Wanba's turn. The porridge wasn't much—just a single ladle. The moment the millet porridge was scooped into his bowl, he ignored the scalding heat and reached in with his bare hands to grab it.
