After being separated from my family, I became a darling of the military region thanks to my medical

At 7:10 a.m. sharp, Ye Zhen arrived at the ICU.

The child's blood oxygen level dropped as low as 83 at night, but recovered on its own in less than four minutes. During the rest of the time, it remained firmly between 85 and 88.

After reviewing the night shift nursing records, Ye Zhen used a stethoscope to listen to the small body's chest and back.

"No new moist rales were heard in the lungs, and the drainage volume was normal."

She looked up at Director Gao, who had rushed to see the patient, and instructed him, "Continue with this treatment plan today, without adding or subtracting anything."

Director Gao wiped his bloodshot eyes and asked, "When can we take them off the ventilator?"

"tomorrow."

Ye Zhen folded the stethoscope and put it back in her white coat pocket. She glanced at the numbers on the monitor one last time, then turned and left the ICU through the iron gate.

In the corridor, Gu Zheng leaned against the wall. When he saw her come out, he casually slipped a red enamel mug with the Double Happiness logo into her hand. It was filled with piping hot sweet soy milk.

Ye Zhen took the drink to warm her hands, took a couple of sips, and asked as she walked, "What time does the summit start?"

"Nine o'clock. Zhou Hai said all the materials are ready, just waiting for you to come and sign them." Gu Zheng strode along beside her.

"Okay, I'll go get some cold water to wash my face first."

9:30 a.m., at the main venue.

The final draft of the standardized postoperative follow-up record form was laid out on the long table on the stage. It was an A4 sheet of paper, twelve pages long, all typed out letter by letter, Chinese character by character, in both Chinese and English.

Andrei was the first to step forward and sign. The Russian had a strong grip; the pen tip struck the paper with such force that it almost tore through the back. After signing, he stood there for a long time without moving, glancing back at Ye Zhen, who was sitting in the middle.

"Dr. Ye, on page seven of this form, regarding the recommended frequency of echocardiogram follow-up five years after surgery, you set it to once every six months."

Ye Zhen sat in the chairman's seat, with a glass of cold water beside her.

"Um."

"The conditions in Moscow... may be difficult to manage every six months; our follow-up system is not adequate."

"Then go and improve it." Ye Zhen didn't even lift her eyelids, her tone leaving no room for negotiation.

Andrei opened his mouth, but in the end he swallowed his words back, nodded heavily, and walked back to his seat.

Williams signed quickly, then capped his pen and put it back in the breast pocket of his suit. He gave Ye Zhen a slight bow and didn't say a word more.

Yamada's hand trembled slightly as he signed the document. After putting down the pen, he looked at his name over and over again, as if to confirm that he had indeed participated in this monumental feat that could rewrite history.

The eleventh signatory was the French representative, Lefebvre, who added a line of small French text after his signature. The Chinese translator leaned over to take a look, then lowered his voice and said to Ye Zhen, "Dr. Ye, he wrote, 'It is an honor.'"

Ye Zhen nodded, her cool gaze shifting to the last person who hadn't yet come up.

Harrison slowly stood up from his chair in the second row.

He walked to the long table and took the pen handed to him by a staff member.

The signature section is located at the bottom of page twelve, with a narrow horizontal line.

Harrison's pen tip hovered above the horizontal line for about two seconds.

Then he put down his pen and wrote down his full name.

After signing, his pen did not leave the paper.

The pen tip moved one centimeter to the right, and another line of small characters was written in the blank space next to the signature column.

The staff took the documents back and respectfully placed them in front of Ye Zhen.

Ye Zhen glanced at the line of English next to Harrison's signature.

I was wrong.

The three words, written in a more illegible hand than a formal signature, with the last letter slightly upturned at the end, conveyed the helplessness and resignation of this American titan as he bowed his head in defeat.

Ye Zhen closed the final draft and handed it to Zhou Hai, who was standing next to her.

"Save this."

Zhou Hai took the document, holding it with both hands as carefully as if it were the Imperial Seal of the State.

The summit concluded at 4 p.m.

Ye Zhen shook hands with the representatives of each country one by one, quickly and efficiently, and the whole process took less than twenty minutes.

After seeing off the last group of foreign guests, Ye Zhen tugged at the collar of her white coat and turned to walk towards the ICU.

Gu Zheng followed behind her with his hands in his military trouser pockets, without stopping her.

When Ye Zhen reached the corner of the corridor, her steps slowed down slightly.

Beneath the peeling paint on the corner wall, a gaunt woman was crouching.

She is the mother of the sick child from the rural area yesterday.

She somehow got hold of a piece of chalk and drew a crooked word in the corner closest to the terrazzo floor.

thank.

The strokes are wrong; the first horizontal stroke is too long, and the dot on the "speech" radical is crooked. But the character conveys a deep sense of gratitude, making it instantly recognizable.

When the woman saw Ye Zhen approaching, she jerked her body and tried to stand up, then tried to kneel down and kowtow. Her legs struggled, and in the end, she couldn't complete either posture. She just squatted halfway against the wall, her two rough hands tightly clasped together.

Ye Zhen walked over and squatted down in front of her.

"The child is much better today than yesterday."

The woman's lips trembled violently a few times, and the words she squeezed out were broken and incoherent: "Doctor, I... I don't know many words, I can only write this one."

Ye Zhen glanced at the chalk writing on the wall, not commenting on whether it was good or bad, and stood up to dust off her knees.

"Don't squat against the wall anymore. Go to the wooden chair next to the nurses' station and sit down to wait. The nurses will let you know if there's any news."

The woman nodded repeatedly, then hurriedly straightened up against the wall.

Ye Zhen took a few steps, then stopped, turned back and said, "Your handwriting is quite good; you can use it to teach your child to read in the future."

The woman stood there, stunned, tears streaming down her face.

Ye Zhen didn't linger and turned around, walking to the end of the corridor.

At 2 p.m. the following day, WHO Director-General Mahele made his final appearance at the military hospital before boarding his plane back to Geneva.

He didn't go to the lavishly decorated main venue, nor to Zhou Hai's dean's office. Instead, he had his entourage take him directly to the simple corridor where the ICU was located.

The overhead lights in the corridor were still dim, the mop stains on the terrazzo floor dried and then got wet again, and two mottled oxygen cylinders and a peeling dressing cart stood in the corner.

At the base of the wall, the crooked "Thank you" written in chalk is still there.

On the wall next to it was something new—a handwritten duty roster pinned with thumbtacks. It was written with a blue ballpoint pen, the handwriting small and dense, with each nurse's name followed by their specific rounds time, down to the minute.

Mahler stood in front of this wall for a long time. He looked at the duty roster, at the chalk writing, and at the gray mark left by the poor mother squatting in the corner.

"Take a picture of this wall."

He gave instructions to the foreign photographers accompanying him.

The photographer lifted the bulky camera, focused it three times before pressing the shutter, his fingers trembling slightly.

Maheler glanced at the developed black and white negative and nodded solemnly.

Vice Minister Li stood behind him.

"Doctor, this place is far too rudimentary... If you need a more formal photo, we can arrange it at the main venue anytime. We've even put up a red banner."

Mahele did not turn around; he remained facing the wall.

"Minister Li, the Geneva headquarters publishes an annual report every year, which is distributed to 194 member countries worldwide."

Vice Minister Li's heart jumped: "Yes."

"I'm going to use this photo for this year's cover."

Vice Minister Li's mouth was slightly open, and he didn't close it for a long time.

"This is the corridor." Maheler finally turned around, looking at Deputy Minister Li with a calm yet extremely authoritative gaze. "No cropping, no retouching."

He paused for a moment, then added, "Even that one wrong chalk character at the bottom should be kept exactly as it is."

Vice Minister Li swallowed hard, his voice hoarse: "Doctor, on behalf of the Ministry of Health..."

Mahler waved his hand, not giving him a chance to be polite.

"You don't need to represent anyone, Minister Li."

He stretched out his finger and lightly touched the edge of the duty roster, then immediately withdrew it as if afraid of damaging some sacred object.

"I can tell you with certainty that I have visited no fewer than five hundred of the world's top hospitals. This is the only wall that I feel should be seen by all of humanity."

Vice Minister Li nodded vigorously, unable to utter another word of polite formality.

Mahler glanced down the corridor: "Where's Dr. Ye?"

Vice Minister Li quickly pointed towards the ICU: "She's in the demonstration room next door, it seems she's giving a lesson to some interns."

Mahler did not go over to disturb them.

He straightened the cuffs of his well-tailored suit, nodded to the accompanying officials, and turned to walk down the corridor toward the main entrance.

Just a dozen steps later, Ye Zhen's cold and stern voice came from the demonstration room at the other end of the corridor.

"There are three key observation points for the 24 hours after drainage tube surgery: first, color; second, amount; and third, fluctuation. Wang Xiaoming, what color should prompt an immediate call to the attending physician?"

A young male voice rang out nervously, accompanied by the rustling sound of flipping through an old notebook: "Bright, bright red!"

"Incomplete." Ye Zhen's tone was flat. "Bright red, and the amount is greater than three milliliters per kilogram of body weight per hour."

"Write all of this down; it will definitely be on the test."

Mahler paused for two seconds at the end of the corridor and whispered a sentence in English to the translator beside him.

The translator was stunned and didn't translate immediately.

Mahler didn't wait any longer, strode through the gate, and got into the waiting old Red Flag sedan.

Vice Minister Li chased after him to the door and asked the translator, "What was his last statement?"

The translator swallowed hard, watching the taillights of the old Red Flag car disappear into the distance, his voice trembling slightly.

"The doctor said...this is the voice that should be written into history."