In the chaotic yet solemn atmosphere, the work of registering the identities of the famine victims began.
Early the next morning, outside Sparrow Wood Castle at the food distribution site, a strange checkpoint appeared before the large pot of porridge.
It was a table made of two wooden boxes, with a soldier of the Salvation Army sitting behind it, holding a feather pen instead of a long gun.
Before him lay an open ledger, his face tense as if facing a formidable enemy, looking even more nervous than the soldiers on the castle.
Old Hank standing in front of the table was equally tense.
He held a broken wooden bowl in his hand, wobbling to the table, unsure of what this group of soldiers was up to this time.
He just wanted to eat.
Seeing Hank approaching, the soldier straightened his expression and spoke in a businesslike tone.
"Name?"
"Han, Hank!" Old Hank straightened his body and answered as if reporting.
"Village?"
"Village?"
"Where you originally lived!"
