2008, High school, boys' dormitory, after lights out.

I was running a fever, delirious, my whole body burning hot.

My bunkmate above me told me to take off my shirt, then climbed down and pulled out a bottle of 56-degree Erguotou, poured it into a stainless steel bowl, and lit it directly on fire.

In the darkness of the dormitory, that ghostly blue flame looked particularly eerie. Before I could ask if he was going to sacrifice me, he had already plunged his hand into the fire.

Literally straight into it, soaking his hand in the still-burning alcohol, then slapped it hard across my back.

That moment felt strange. First came the scorching heat from the fire, then immediately the intense cool sensation from the alcohol evaporating rapidly.

He repeated the process on my back over and over—dipping into the fire, massaging. Hot, then cool. I don't remember when I fell asleep, only that I slept very deeply that night.

Later I understood what they meant by "at the time, it seemed ordinary."

After so many years in society, I've traveled to many places, yet never has anyone else dared to bare-handedly dip into burning alcohol to give me a fire massage, not even a premium masseuse!