Morning light filtered through the slats of the blinds, falling in mottled patches across a ledger yellowed by coffee stains.
The air was filled with the mixed scent of alcohol and coffee, stale and weary.
When Ethan pushed the door open, he heard the crisp “ding—” of the bell, and then saw Mary Mason hunched behind the counter, flipping through something.
She wore an ashen-white coat, the cuffs rolled up to her elbows, her hair neatly tied back, her fingers long and slender. She did not look like a doctor so much as an artist preparing to dissect the world.
Ethan greeted her. “Morning. No classes today?”
“Only no classes this morning.” Mary did not lift her head. “Bad news: we owe the pharmacy three thousand, and the electric bill came in too.”
“The good news?”
“The clinic hasn’t been shut down yet.”
Ethan took two cups of coffee out of the bag and set them on the table.
“A reward for coming in to work part-time when you only have half a day free.”
Mary took the cup and sipped. “This is a meaningless bribe. I’m still charging you eighty dollars.”
She and Ethan had originally agreed on an hourly wage of twenty dollars, but Ethan found the calculations too troublesome, so they finally settled on eighty dollars for the morning, eighty for the afternoon, and eighty for the evening. It sounded like more than twenty dollars an hour, but it was practically the minimum wage for a medical student’s internship.
“Eighty dollars for a wonderful morning. What a bargain!”
Several medical files, a few receipts, and a newly bought stethoscope were piled on the counter.
Mary opened the ledger, her fingertip sliding over the numbers.
“You have five days until bankruptcy,” she said flatly.
“Two days more than I thought.” Ethan smiled. “Don’t you think that’s a positive sign?”
“Positive? The last time you said positive, this place was nearly shut down by the health department.”
“That proves I’m at least a man of conviction.”
Mary could not help rolling her eyes.
She had never believed in God, much less in “conviction” being able to pay rent.
The two of them sat down together to drink their coffee.
“Before you came, I saw two patients.” At the mention of patients, Mary seemed to perk up a little. “One got his head split open in a fight, and one had his foot crushed by something.”
Ethan said, “Wow. If you work just a little harder, I’ll be able to hire a nurse.”
Mary said, “You can barely pay my wages, and you still want to hire a nurse? Also, why am I the one who has to work harder?”
“I’m working hard too.” Ethan leaned against the doorframe, studying the flickering pendant light. “But if that light keeps flickering like this, I think the two of us may have to go see an ophthalmologist.”
“Ding—” The doorbell suddenly rang, interrupting their coffee break.
A young deliveryman came in clutching his arm, his expression pained.
“Sorry, I got hurt… I heard this place charges pretty reasonably.”
“Lie down.” Mary rose briskly.
Ethan also put on gloves and walked over to ask, “How did it happen?”
“I was opening a box and cut myself by accident.”
“Typical laceration.” Mary examined the wound as she spoke. “A superficial cut. No stitches needed. Simple treatment will do.”
She cleaned it, bandaged it, applied medication—all in one smooth sequence.
Ethan helped at the side, handing over tools and cutting bandages, playing the role of a proper assistant.
Five minutes later, the patient sat up, lightly touched his tightly wrapped arm, and then looked utterly relieved.
“How much?” He took out his wallet, revealing the crumpled bills inside.
“Twenty dollars.” Mary quoted a middle-of-the-road price.
“Huh? Doctors really are good people.”
“Are we? Welcome back next time!”
The deliveryman thanked them and walked briskly out the door.
Mary put the money into the cash register. “See? This is our most common case—the price of cheap labor.”
Ethan said, “Our reputation is improving. And haven’t you noticed? They trust us.”
Mary snorted. “Or they’re simply poor.”
“There’s only one illness in this world: the disease of poverty.” For some reason, Ethan thought of a line from his previous life.
Mary said, “If poverty is an illness, then we’re all seriously sick! And it’s contagious! Your sympathy is going to make us close down!”
“Don’t worry. I’ll give you severance pay before we shut down.”
Mary glared at him, but she could not help laughing.
They were just about to clear the table when the door was shoved open violently. A middle-aged man staggered in, both hands pressed tightly to his abdomen, blood seeping through his fingers.
His voice was hoarse. “Doctor—save… save me—”
Before he could finish, he collapsed onto the floor.
“Emergency!” Mary’s voice and movements came at the same time. She bent down to check his breathing. “Weak pulse, low blood pressure. Possible traumatic blood loss. Ethan, close the door and get the sterile pack!”
“Got it!” Ethan immediately put on gloves, pulled down the blinds, and flipped the “Open” sign to “Closed.”
The air instantly tightened.
The man’s shirt had been dyed dark red with blood. There was a gash about fifteen centimeters long across his abdomen, its edges neat.
At one glance at the wound, Mary’s breathing stalled slightly. “A knife wound… Not a workplace injury. Looks like he was slashed.”
“Blood loss is around six or seven hundred milliliters, with mild signs of shock,” Ethan added.
The smell of blood was so thick it made one’s throat tighten.
Together, they lifted him onto the operating table. The patient was barely conscious, his breathing shallow, his skin already showing the pallor of blood loss.
Mary quickly checked his pupillary reflex. “Unconscious, blood pressure eighty, weak pulse—we need to stop the bleeding and suture immediately.”
“Understood.” Ethan pulled down the surgical light and handed over hemostats, suturing needle, and thread.
The light fell on the patient’s body, making his pale skin seem almost translucent.
Mary tore open the gauze, her movements flowing without pause. “Povidone-iodine—”
“Here.”
Mary bit her lip, her fingers trembling slightly, but her movements remained precise: debridement, compression to stop the bleeding, suturing the wound.
The sound of the needle piercing skin was especially grating in the cramped treatment room.
Ethan handed her fresh forceps, cotton swabs, and alcohol wipes from the side.
“Pulse is dropping.” He looked at the monitor readings, his brows faintly knitting.
“He won’t hold on.” Mary gritted her teeth. “We have to speed up.”
She quickened the rhythm of her suturing. Blood was still seeping out, staining the white gloves red.
“Breathing is weak,” Ethan reported. “Blood pressure has fallen below eighty.”
“Damn it—” For the first time, panic entered Mary’s voice. “He’s about to go into shock!”
The light swayed. Ethan’s hand silently pressed against the patient’s chest.
He murmured in a low voice, like he was reciting a prayer no one could hear clearly.
There seemed to be an unusual ripple in the air. A faint thread of warm light seeped from his palm—so pale and brief, like a single glimmer in the morning sun.
Mary was busy suturing, while Ethan only lowered his eyes, his expression calm.
Mary did not notice that Ethan’s fingers were still faintly warm—the light had already vanished, but its lingering heat remained.
A few seconds later, the heart rate slowly climbed back up, from forty beats per minute to fifty, then to sixty.
Mary froze for a moment, almost unable to believe it. “His blood pressure… is rising?”
“Is it? The glucose must be working.”
“That quickly?”
“Sugar is the strongest magic in the world.”
Mary had no time to argue. She swiftly finished the final sutures, tied them off, and bandaged him, her movements clean and efficient.
“The bleeding is under control. He’s temporarily out of danger.”
Ethan reached out to support her shoulder and helped her sit down in a chair. “Beautiful work, Dr. Mary.”
She removed her gloves and let out a long breath. “Strictly speaking, he should be kept under observation for at least six hours.”
“The problem is, we don’t have any wards right now.” Ethan smiled. “But luckily, I don’t think he’ll mind.”
The scent of blood and povidone-iodine still lingered in the air, but the clinic had returned to quiet.
The patient’s breathing became steady, and a little color returned to his face.
Mary lowered her head to check his condition. Her own heartbeat was still somewhat rapid, and she could not help murmuring, “How strange. He was clearly almost not breathing just now.”
Ethan said, “In medicine, there are always miracles.”
Mary checked his blood pressure again. The patient’s hand suddenly moved slightly.
Immediately after, he let out a muffled groan.
“He’s awake?” Mary froze.
The man laboriously opened his eyes. A hoarse sentence squeezed out of his throat. “I… didn’t die?”
“You very nearly did,” Mary said. “Five minutes later, and you would’ve made the local news.”
The man blinked, came back to himself, and tried to prop himself up, only for Mary to press him back down at once.
“Don’t move. You just got twelve stitches.”
“I… don’t feel that serious.”
Ethan leaned over. “I have to remind you, that wasn’t an ordinary cut. You’d better listen to the doctor.”
The man closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “But I really… feel fine. My head isn’t dizzy, and I can move my hands and feet.”
Mary frowned. “That’s not scientific.”
“Maybe his basal metabolism is strong,” Ethan said with a completely serious expression. “Some people are born with fast recovery.”
Mary glanced at him, clearly unconvinced. She had clearly watched that man fall unconscious, his pulse faint, and yet now he seemed as if nothing had happened.
The man panted a few times, then suddenly pushed himself upright. His movements were slow, but very steady.
He looked down at his bandaged abdomen—the gauze was new and dry, with no trace of blood visible anymore.
“You people… are amazing!” he laughed hoarsely. “I have to go.”
“Go? Are you kidding?” Mary could not help raising her voice. “An injury like yours needs at least two days of observation!”
“I can’t.” The man shook his head. “They’ll come looking for me. If I stay here any longer, I’ll drag you into it.”
As he spoke, he took out a stack of crumpled cash and pushed it onto the table.
“This is the consultation fee, and… thank you.”
Mary still wanted to stop him, but Ethan gently pressed down on her wrist.
“It’s fine,” he said softly. “Let him go.”
Mary looked at the man’s complexion, then at his astonishingly steady steps—he really did not look like a patient who had lost several hundred milliliters of blood.
When the man reached the door, he looked back at them.
“If there’s a chance in the future, I’ll come here again.”
“You’re welcome anytime,” Ethan replied.
The man smiled, turned, and vanished into the sunlight.
The moment the door closed, the air returned to silence.
Mary stared at the empty doorway, her brows knitting tighter and tighter. “This is too abnormal. He just got twelve stitches, and he can actually walk out on his own?”
Ethan leaned against the doorframe and took an idle sip of his cold coffee. “I told you—sugar is the strongest magic in the world.”
“Ethan, I’m serious.”
“So am I.” He smiled. “But—maybe he’s just a very lucky guy.”
—Target status updated: “Recovery” effect vanished.