“I’m afraid not. There’s water in the guardroom. The porridge is quite watery.” She sat on the bedside, bending over a small low table, where two dishes and two bowls of porridge were steaming. Using a pair of chopsticks, she was filling a lunchbox with food that was apparently for father. With unaccustomed sharpness, she started pushing me. “Your stomach is just that big. How can you eat much if you were stuff ed with water? Don’t you look frail enough??”