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

Lynn was examining his lungs with a stethoscope when he heard this and glanced at the cover.

"I've read it. The original Chinese version."

Dawson raised an eyebrow.

"It seems he's not just an ABC who only speaks English. So what do you think of Li Si?"

Lynn took off the stethoscope and thought for a moment.

"Li Si is a designer."

"Oh? A designer?"

"The Qin Dynasty was able to transform from a regional feudal state into a unified empire, but military force only solved the problem of conquering territory. How to govern was a problem solved by Li Si and, before him, Shang Yang and others."

Dawson's eyes lit up.

"continue."

"Before the Qin Dynasty, there was a feudal system. The emperor would distribute land to his relatives, and those relatives would then distribute it to their own relatives."

"The first generation was alright, but by the third and fourth generations, the people on the fiefdoms no longer recognized the central government. For the next few hundred years of the Zhou Dynasty, there was constant warfare, and the feudal lords were more powerful than the emperor."

"It sounds familiar," Dawson said.

"The core of the prefecture-county system is this: local officials are directly appointed by the central government, their positions are not hereditary, they are not rooted in their local communities, and they are rotated regularly. If they do a good job, they are promoted; if they do not, they are dismissed. They are accountable to their superiors, not to local powerful clans."

Dawson put down the book and clasped his hands over his stomach.

"You know, this system worked 2,300 years ago. An agricultural civilization, managing tens of millions of people, survived for over two thousand years using this system. Countless dynasties changed, but no one dared to touch the underlying structure."

He paused for a moment.

"The feudal system in Europe persisted until the 18th century. Napoleon only started promoting a professional civil service system, two thousand years later than you."

Lynn didn't respond.

He realized that Dawson wasn't talking about history.

"The problems America faces today are similar to those at the end of the Zhou Dynasty."

Dawson's voice calmed down.

"Behind every MP stands a bunch of PACs and lobbying groups. To whom are they accountable? To the donors, not to the voters who cast their ballots."

"Each state goes its own way, and federal policies are distorted when they are implemented. Healthcare, education, infrastructure—every reform has to pass the approval of fifty states, and each time it passes, it gets ripped off by local interest groups."

He looked out the window.

"A modern version of warlordism. No one is fighting, but the effect is the same."

Lynn leaned against the window: "The difference is that the Zhou emperor doesn't have Twitter. No, it should be called X now."

Dawson paused for a second.

Then he laughed.

He laughed so hard that it aggravated the stitches on his chest. He frowned, pressed the gauze, and hissed, but he couldn't stop laughing.

"You little rascal—"

Grant coughed at the door; it was time.

"Wait a minute. Get me a complete, original Chinese version of the Records of the Grand Historian."

"There's a bookstore in Chinatown that's cheaper than Amazon."

"Then Chinatown it is. Let Grant give you the money."

Grant nodded expressionlessly.

He had grown accustomed to the Speaker's sudden bursts of enthusiasm.

The last time was when I read a book on the Ottoman Empire's tax system, and as a result, I quoted Suleiman the Magnificent's decrees at policy discussion meetings for three consecutive weeks.

Lynn glanced at her phone as she left the ward.

Miller sent a message:

"You've been pretty free lately, haven't you? I heard you became the Speaker's personal physician? I've got some new work to do tonight."

This order is very simple.

A middle-aged woman who needs to have a subcutaneous lipoma removed.

The reason why they were unwilling to go through insurance and keep a record was unclear; Miller didn't say, and Lynn didn't ask.

Local anesthesia, incision, dissection, suturing.

It took no more than half an hour in total.

"One thousand and two."

The woman left the money and left.

Cassie looked at the stack of banknotes and his lips curled down slightly.

"It's less than half of what Joe did last time."

"That's the kind of job Miller introduced—stable but low-paying." Lynn tossed his gloves into a waste bag. "Safe."

64 points.

Lynn 720, Cassie 480.

When Cassie rolled up the four hundred and eighty dollars and stuffed it into the hidden compartment, his movements were noticeably less solemn than last time.

"At this rate, when will we ever make a lot of money?" she said.

"Don't rush."

The speaker is on the eighth day after surgery.

In the morning, Lynn opened the ward door with a Chinese version of "Records of the Grand Historian" and was stunned.

The bed is empty.

The blanket was pulled aside, the electrocardiogram monitor was glowing green, the waveform was a straight line, and the electrodes had been torn off.

He checked the bathroom first.

The door was open, but no one was there.

Then they heard a very light footstep in the corridor.

Twenty feet away, Richard Dawson was slowly moving forward, holding onto an IV stand.

Grant stood to his left, one hand loosely supporting his elbow, a posture somewhere between helping and waiting.

Dawson was wearing a hospital gown, his back half-open, revealing the surgical incision on his left rib that had not yet fully healed.

He stopped in his tracks the moment he saw Lynn.

His expression was like that of a 62-year-old child caught stealing cake.

"Mr. Speaker," Lynn said, frowning as he looked at the other person.

"I am... um..."

Dawson cleared his throat. "Come out for a walk."

"Although you arranged for a physical therapist."

"But I don't think I need his help."

"So what you need is to walk around the hallway without supervision, wearing a hospital gown that lets in a draft in the back?"

Dawson glared at Lynn.

Grant stood to the side, his facial muscles completely still.

"Do you know I lay in that bed for eight whole days?"

Dawson lowered his voice, with an awkward and aggrieved tone, "Even going to the toilet requires ringing a bell to call someone."

"You had seven stitches on a branch of your pulmonary artery. The last stitch was less than two centimeters from the perivascular membrane. You fell, the stitches came undone, and you had to go back on the operating table."

"Then what do you suggest we do?"

"Starting tomorrow, twice a day, fifteen minutes each time. I'll keep you company."

"Don't you need a physical therapist?"

"Need not."

Dawson's expression immediately relaxed; he didn't want too many strangers around him during this vulnerable moment.

"That's more like it."

He took Lynn's arm and walked back, his steps more steady than before, as if he had finally obtained some kind of license.

I never expected the old speaker to have such a childlike side.

Back in the ward, I sat on the edge of the bed.

Lynn examined the incision; the sutures were intact, there was no bleeding, and no redness or swelling.

"Stop if your heart rate exceeds 110."

"Okay, okay," Dawson waved his hand impatiently.

"Huh? You're quick." Only then did he notice the Records of the Grand Historian under Lynn's armpit.

He grabbed it, sat on the edge of the bed, stroked the spine of the book, and stopped fiddling with it.

Grant also breathed a sigh of relief.

Dawson was in a good mood, and he took out a cedar wood box.

"Kid."

The box is about the same size as this copy of "Records of the Grand Historian".

The stamp bears a black and gold logo, featuring the silhouette of a Native American in profile.

Kohiba.

It's not your average Cohiba; the side of the box is printed with "Behike 52".

This is strictly speaking a prohibited item in the United States; it's a Cuban cigar and is subject to trade embargoes.

It's not available in stores; one costs $130 on the black market.

"Want a cigar?" Dawson asked casually.