American Medicine: I survived the death knell thanks to the devil.

Lynn straightened the collar of his white coat and walked into the examination room.

A woman's crying could be heard from not far away, mixed with Spanish.

The curtain for bed number three was drawn.

A thin boy sat on the bed, his left forearm swollen like a steamed bun, with the bone protruding from under the skin.

Closed fracture with significant displacement.

The boy did not cry.

He clenched his right fist, his lips were pale, and he stared intently at his deformed arm.

His mother stood beside him, tears streaming down her face.

A typical Latino single mother.

His clothes were stained with grease from the restaurant kitchen, and there was flour embedded in his fingernails, so he probably came from the night shift.

She hesitated for a moment when she saw Lynn's face.

An Asian...and he looks so young.

Are you the attending physician?

"I am the doctor on duty."

Lynn didn't explain further.

He crouched down, bringing his line of sight to the boy's.

"Hey. May I see your hands?"

The boy didn't speak, but slowly stretched out his arm.

Lynn's fingers touched it.

It's very light.

He began palpating the radial styloid process, slowly moving his fingertips up the bone shaft, pausing every half centimeter to feel the continuity of the bone surface.

When I reached the far third of the way, I felt a subtle step at my fingertips.

The fracture ends overlapped, but did not puncture the periosteum.

The angle and degree of displacement are within acceptable limits.

"Does it hurt?"

"fine."

The boy's voice wasn't loud, but his pronunciation was very clear.

Children from poor families mature early; he didn't want his mother to worry.

"You are very brave."

Lynn stood up and turned to look at her mother.

"A closed distal radius fracture with minimal displacement. Surgery is not necessary; manual reduction and plaster cast immobilization will suffice. It should heal in six to eight weeks."

He put it simply and clearly.

There was no bombardment of terminology, no ambiguity.

The mother understood, but she was still worried.

"Could we wait for the attending physician to come and see...?"

"It's the middle of the night, and none of the attending physicians are here."

Lynn's tone was not impatient.

"The orthopedic specialist can arrive as early as 8 a.m. tomorrow. However, for every hour the fracture ends swell, the difficulty of reduction increases. If we wait until dawn, it may not be possible to resolve the issue through manual reduction."

Women's eyesight.

"I won't put your child at any risk."

The mother remained silent for half a minute before finally nodding.

Lynn turned to prepare the equipment needed for the repositioning.

Local anesthesia with mepivacaine, finger traction, and standard three-point compression reduction method.

His hands were very steady when he did these things.

It was just as stable as when that anonymous email was sent.

He was as steady as when he signed in the dean's office.

For Lynn, there was no contradiction among these things.

If the dean wants to erase his achievements, that's the dean's business.

If the council wants to investigate his background, that's the council's business.

He should fight back when necessary and make strategic moves when appropriate.

When a patient is brought to him, he tries his best to treat them.

Do what a doctor should do.

The boy in bed number three did not make a sound after the local anesthesia took effect.

Without any special skills, Lynn successfully repositioned himself on his first attempt. In his previous life, he was an attending orthopedic surgeon at a top-tier hospital.

The bone ends are well aligned, and the plaster cast is perfectly shaped.

The mother held Lynn's hand tightly with her flour-covered hands.

"Thank you."

Her English wasn't very good, but she pronounced those two words very clearly.

Lynn nodded.

"Come back for a follow-up examination in six weeks."

……

Manhattan, Upper East Side.

The Oak Room on the third floor of the Nick Burke Club at the intersection of Fifth Avenue and 62nd Street.

In this red brick building, built in 1913, the air is always filled with the aroma of cedar wood and aged port wine.

A 19th-century oil painting of a fox hunt hangs on the wall, the bronze plaque on the frame oxidized to a dark green.

Nine people were sitting around the long table.

Philip Ross, Chief of Cardiothoracic Surgery at the Icahn School of Medicine, Mount Sinai.

Two senior partners from the Columbia Surgical Partners team at Presbyterian Hospital.

Three board members of the New York Physicians Mutual Aid Foundation.

There were two other familiar faces that Julian couldn't recall by name, but he was sure he'd seen at some medical journal editorial board meeting.

These people combined probably control about a third of all surgical residency training slots in New York City.

His father, old Cabot, sat in the head seat.

Charles Cabot, former chief of cardiac surgery at Presbyterian Hospital, is currently the president of the New York Physicians Mutual Aid Foundation.

He's been retired for seven years, but at this table, his words still carry the most weight.

Julian sat to his right.

A dark gray suit, a Windsor knot tie, and sterling silver cufflinks that have been passed down through the family.

The hair was combed back meticulously with hair wax.

He had attended countless dinner parties like this since he was a child.

The process is the same every time:

His father casually mentioned his name during the meal, and the elders present showed expressions of appreciation at the opportune moment.

Then, the father would steer the conversation toward a certain paper, a certain grant, or a certain position that was about to become vacant.

Everything is under control.

He was used to it long ago.

The waiter brought out the main course.

Pan-fried venison with black truffle sauce, paired with a bottle of 2010 Burgundy.

Unlike the dinner parties of Wall Street, New York's medical elite do not pursue extravagance, but rather emphasize taste.

Ordering a bottle of Lafite might make you seem like a nouveau riche, but if you can chat about the terroir of a particular year in Burgundy, it means you're one of us.

"Everyone."

Old Cabot put down his knife and fork and wiped his mouth with a napkin.

"You've all probably heard about what happened in the metropolis."

The table fell silent.

News of Speaker Dawson's assassination has spread throughout the New York medical community.

VIP cases of this caliber would make headlines in any hospital.

"The Speaker's surgery a few days ago,"

Old Cabot glanced at Julian, his eyes filled with a carefully crafted pride.

"My son performed the surgery."

The table was filled with raised glasses.

"amazing."

"He truly deserves to be called the most talented child of the Cabot family in this generation."

"I heard it was a ruptured pulmonary artery branch caused by a gunshot wound? That's a very tricky location."

Julian picked up his glass and nodded slightly.

The corners of his mouth maintained a perfectly shaped curve.

Humble, but not subservient. Confident, but not arrogant.

These are the social expressions that the Cabot family children are trained to use from a young age.

But the moment the words "chief surgeon" came out of his father's mouth, a scene flashed through Julian's mind.

One hand.

A right hand wearing a size 7.5 glove, its fingertips sinking into the unseen darkness deep within the mediastinum.

Steady, accurate, and fast, without the slightest hesitation, as if one could see through flesh and blood to every blood vessel underneath.

Twenty-seven seconds.

The hand lingered in the mediastinum for only twenty-seven seconds before precisely finding the tear.

He himself stood on the opposite side the whole time, holding the hook, not daring to breathe too heavily.

Julian wanted to suppress the image.

The wine glasses clinked together, making a crisp sound.

"Julian," Director Ross of Mount Sinai put down his glass, "are you still in Metropolis?"

"Yes, Professor Ross."

"Metropolis is a good place to train people. But given your current qualifications and the impact of this surgery..."

Ross paused, as if considering his words, "Our cardiothoracic surgery department at Mount Sinai is currently short of a head of staff. If you're interested, you can come and talk to us."

The subtext of this statement was clear to everyone present.