With that, the man quickened his pace and followed his companion downstairs. Tang Xiaonan's heart felt heavy. She understood all too well that sympathy was useless to these working-class laborers. They didn't need pity; they needed work—the more, the better—so they could earn more money to support their families.
But seeing such a scene, Tang Xiaonan couldn't help but feel upset. In her past life, when she had just started working, she was broke. She rented a place in an urban village, used a gas canister for cooking, and had to call for a delivery whenever it ran out. She lived on the fifth floor, and one time, the delivery man was an old gentleman with a full head of white hair. He was already seventy, huffing and puffing as he hauled the gas canister up the stairs.
