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

The incandescent lights in the ward corridor were on.

George's camera veered off course. His original plan was to film "The Backward Eastern Hospital," but the tapes were now filled with mundane details of hospital bedsides.

The lead door opened. Gu Zheng walked in, dressed in a crisp uniform, followed by two soldiers from the guard company. Both men were carrying heavy bamboo baskets.

"Be quiet, don't disturb those dolls inside." Gu Zheng said in a low voice, his brows furrowed, but his military boots felt like they were walking on cotton, and he didn't make a single sound.

He placed the lightest basket at the nurses' station. Inside were plump, juicy Guoguang apples and a packet of White Rabbit milk candy wrapped in kraft paper.

"Wash these fruits and distribute them to the wards," Gu Zheng said, pointing to the basket. "They're specially supplied; they won't upset your stomach."

George's camera immediately zoomed in. The Chinese officer, who had looked like a thug ready to draw his gun at the airport the day before yesterday, now looked as cautious as if he were defusing a minefield as he bent over to deliver apples to the ward.

Brown stood at the foot of the bed in ward number three, holding a nursing record sheet handwritten by a Chinese medical student.

He had hoped to salvage some semblance of London's dignity amidst the rudimentary nursing care. But his gaze fell upon a dense array of English words, written in impeccably neat handwriting: body temperature, heart rate, respiratory rate, peripheral temperature. Each data point was accompanied by a time stamp accurate to the minute.

"Last night, at 3:42 AM, he was turned over once. At 4:05 AM, he was given 5 ml of water." Brown read out the record and turned to look at Lin Yi standing to the side.

Lin Yi, sporting dark circles under his eyes, held a half-peeled Guoguang apple in his hand. His knife skills were terrible; the flesh was uneven and pitted, as if a dog had gnawed on it.

"Dr. Brown, this is a strict rule set by Professor Ye. During the intensive care period, you can't take your eyes off the patient," Lin Yi explained.

James, lying in his hospital bed, stared longingly at the ugly apple.

Lin Yi felt a little embarrassed, so he cut the apple into small pieces with a knife, stuck them into toothpicks, and handed them over.

James took a bite, chewed it twice, and a smile appeared on his pale face. "Delicious," he said, uttering the two Chinese characters he had just learned.

George captured this scene on camera. He silently prepared his voiceover: "The equipment here is only a third of what London has, but they bridged the gap between life and death in the most clumsy way. It's the most imperfect, yet sweetest apple in the world."

By evening.

Hurried footsteps echoed in the stairwell. Aunt Wang from the neighborhood committee, leading several elderly women wearing red armbands, rushed up to the third floor, carrying large aluminum lunchboxes.

"The noodles are here! Freshly rolled, and they're really chewy!" Aunt Wang's loud voice drowned out the whispers in the ward.

The lunchbox lid was lifted. Steaming white noodles were soaked in clear chicken broth, topped with a golden poached egg and sprinkled with bright green scallions. Without a word, the aunties picked up their chopsticks and began serving the noodles to the British fathers in the corridor.

A father awkwardly held two bamboo chopsticks, the two sticks fighting with his fingertips, unable to pick up the slippery noodles no matter what he did.

Aunt Wang got impatient, grabbed his wrist, and forcefully pried open his fingers, teaching him how to use force: "Thumb here! Index finger up! Oh dear, you're so big, how come your hands are clumsy than an old woman with bound feet!"

The father in bed number two couldn't understand the words, but he understood the gestures. His face flushed red as he tried to imitate them, and he actually managed to pick up a mouthful of noodles and put it in his mouth. As the fragrant chicken soup went down his throat, his eyes immediately welled up with tears.

Brown had just come out of the ward when he saw several middle-aged women tying red strings around the children's wrists, with a small brass object attached to the strings.

"Stop! What are you doing?" Brown strode over. "The ward must be absolutely sterile. These unknown substances could infect the child!"

Without even looking up, Aunt Wang quickly tied a tight knot for James before turning around and putting her hands on her hips.

"What infection? This is a talisman! I got it from the Yonghe Temple!" the middle-aged woman said with a booming voice. "Foreign doctors, don't you know the rules? This child just had a brush with death; his soul is still unsettled. We need to borrow the auspicious energy of the Chinese dragon to calm him down!"

The medical student translator stood to the side, his tongue starting to tie itself in knots: "She says... this is a blessing from the Chinese dragon to protect the soul..."

Brown was stunned. He wanted to refute him with common sense of modern medicine, but he saw James on the hospital bed touching the red rope and grinning happily.

"But this is superstition..." Brown managed to utter half a sentence.

"What superstition? Dr. Ye's surgeries are like magic, and with this amulet, it's double insurance!" Without further ado, Aunt Wang pulled another red string from her pocket and looped it around Brown's wrist. "Your face looks so dark; you must be exhausted these past few days. Here, I'll tie one for you too!"

Brown stared at the red string on his wrist and fell completely silent.

At the other end of the ward, an even stranger scene was unfolding.

Mrs. Taylor and two other British women sat on a bench. Aunt Liu, whom Aunt Wang had brought, took out a bamboo yarn pick and a ball of thick red yarn from her pocket.

"Come on, girl, you're just killing time anyway. Let me teach you how to knit a glove so you won't get cold in winter." Aunt Liu didn't care whether the other woman understood or not. She simply shoved the knitting needles into Mrs. Taylor's hand and picked up another pair of needles to start knitting.

"Sketch, pick up the yarn, wrap it around once..." Aunt Liu said as she knitted.

Mrs. Taylor actually understood the movements. Holding the bamboo skewer, she clumsily followed along with the winding of the thread.

Li Hong, standing next to her, held a medical dictionary, her face filled with despair. She could recite "Tetralogy of Fallot" fluently in English, but how was she supposed to translate "flat needle" or "understanding"?

"This is... flat stitch... you go up... and hook the line..." Li Hong said, gesturing as she spoke, her forehead covered in sweat.

Mrs. Taylor couldn't help but laugh at Li Hong's comical antics. She knitted a short, crooked piece and held it up for Aunt Liu to see.

"Great job! You're really skillful!" Aunt Liu gave a thumbs up.

George handed the microphone to Mrs. Taylor: "Mrs. Taylor, are you used to this Eastern culture? You know, you're a member of the Royal Equestrian Club."

Mrs. Taylor looked down at the bright red yarn in her hand.

"George, do you see that red string?" She pointed to the amulet on her daughter's wrist. "I don't know what this yarn is made of, or what a Chinese dragon is. But I sit here without worrying about bills or food, without worrying about doctors abandoning my child. These people don't even understand our language, yet they give us the best food and even teach me to knit gloves."

She looked up, her eyes glistening with tears: "Here, I feel a sense of security like I have with family."

George's hand froze in mid-air as he glanced at the camera's red light to confirm that everything was being recorded.