When I was assigned a job, I met an honest and shy reporter. Through our conversation, I learned that he is my hometown.

When he borrowed a quilt from the people for the army, he began to borrow it from a new wife, but he didn't. "I" later learned that I helped him, and finally borrowed the dowry of my new wife-a new quilt with a red background lily. He also hung his clothes on rags. Later, when he went back, he left me two dry steamed buns. I found several women to help scrub the injured soldiers, including my new wife. At first, I sent a correspondent, but I was still nervous. I was relieved when I found out it wasn't him. Later, a correspondent came and saw tattered clothes. I know it's him, and I'm worried. Later, I learned from his comrades that he was injured to protect the medical team. After the doctor came, he had already died, while his new wife devoted herself to sewing his clothes. Finally, the new wife gave him the dowry. To show his respect.