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

Chapter 41 Veteran Sachs

"I don't smoke."

"That's even better, keep it."

He opened the box.

Ten cigars were neatly stacked inside, their dark brown wrappers glossy and oily, exuding the aroma of cedar and cocoa.

"In 1966, Castro had a special cigar rolled for him. For the first twenty years, it was only supplied to high-ranking government officials and diplomatic envoys, and not a single one could be found on the market."

"Later, the restrictions were lifted, but the production of the top-grade 'Beike' tobacco is extremely low. It uses a type of tobacco called 'half-time leaf,' which only grows at the very top of the tobacco plant. It's considered good if one out of ten plants can produce it."

He pushed the box toward Lynn.

"It was a gift from someone. I can't smoke it these next couple of days, and I probably won't smoke it anymore. It's a waste to leave it here."

Lynn looked at the box.

Ten branches.

1,300 US dollars.

He closed the box and put it in the side pocket of his white coat. It's normal to give your doctor a little something, no matter where you are.

The white coat pockets weren't big, and a section of the box was sticking out, but it didn't matter; no one dared to say anything about what the speaker had given it to.

"Thanks."

"Don't thank me. Thank the Cuban people."

Dawson leaned back against the pillows with satisfaction. "And that smuggler. If it weren't for him, the East Coast legislators would be smoking inferior Dominican smuggled goods."

That night, in the South Bronx.

Cassie's car was parked under the awning of an abandoned gas station.

Most of the fluorescent tubes overhead were broken, with only one remaining, flickering weakly.

Joe, who had previously visited Shell, said on the phone that he was "one of our own."

The man who arrived was a middle-aged Black man.

Medium build, large frame.

His walking posture clearly showed that he wasn't a street thug with his toes pointed outwards, but rather someone who had received marching training.

This is a veteran.

His right leg is slightly lame, not obvious, and if you don't look closely, you might think he's hiding from a puddle on the ground.

Before getting into the car, he glanced around to make sure there was no one else there before bending down and crawling into the back of the vehicle.

"Sachi." He sat down by the operating table, uttered a name whose authenticity was uncertain, and then pulled up his right trouser leg.

There was a wound about twelve centimeters long on the outside of his calf.

It was sewn, but it was terribly sewn, with the spacing varying greatly, and two stitches had already come undone.

The surrounding skin is red, swollen, and hot, and pus can be smelled.

It dragged on for at least five or six days.

"Who sewed this?" Lynn squatted down to put on her gloves.

"Myself."

"What line?"

"Fishing line."

Cassie gasped. Using fishing line to stitch up a wound without anesthesia? What kind of tough guy is this?

Lynn began removing the stitches.

The nylon thread was stuck to the inflamed tissue, and each time the stitches were removed, a piece of necrotic granulation tissue came off with them.

Sachi's thigh muscles were taut like iron plates, but he didn't utter a sound.

"You served in the military?"

"You figured it out?"

Sachi snorted.

Lynn threw the thread into the sinker, administered local anesthesia, and began cleaning the wound.

The necrotic tissue was scraped away with a scalpel blade, and the tissue was rinsed three times with saline solution.

Fresh granulation tissue is exposed, with neat edges, and blood supply is restored.

Lynn stitched it up again, and Satch looked down at his hands.

"Your technique is like that of a battlefield surgeon."

"no."

"You learned it in the military?"

"Never served in the military."

Sachi stared at him for a few seconds, then didn't ask any more questions.

There was a moment of silence.

"I've been retired for eleven years," Sachi suddenly said.

"The first three years were alright. The Department of Veterans Affairs gave some disability compensation, which was enough to live on. Later, the budget was cut again and again, and the rating standards were raised. This leg used to be 40%, and I could get 1,100."

"Reassess, reduce it to 20%, less than 600 dollars. What can you do with 600 dollars in New York? You can't even afford a single room in the Bronx."

Lynn didn't reply; he was sewing the last few stitches.

"Last year was the worst. After the 'Bigger & Better Act' was passed, the SNAP (Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program) added work hour requirements. My leg didn't qualify me for a disability exemption, and I couldn't stand for 20 hours straight. The subsidies were cut off."

He smiled.

"Luckily, I'm a pretty good shot."

"So now he's keeping watch for Joe's guys. A medal-winning Marine, working as a bodyguard for a booster seller."

It's finished sewing.

Lynn cut the stitches and applied a sterile dressing.

"Do you know who cut the budget?" Sachi's complaints continued.

"The New York City Council. That old bastard Dawson. What the hell was that fiscal consolidation plan he pushed through last year?"

"The housing subsidy for veterans was cut by a third. My mother and I were evicted by the landlord that same month."

The carriage was silent for two seconds.

Cassie's hand froze in mid-air as she glanced at Lynn.

Lynn's expression remained unchanged.

"Take the anti-inflammatory medication for seven days, twice a day, without interruption."

He handed over a bottle of cephalosporin. "You can't run or squat on this leg for a week."

Sachi reached for his money.

He touched his right pocket, then his left pocket.

He pulled out a roll of banknotes; it wasn't thick.

There were only three 100-yuan bills; the rest were 50-yuan, 20-yuan, and a few 10-yuan bills.

He counted the bills out to Cassie one by one.

They stopped counting at 1800.

He gathered the remaining few sheets in his hand and flipped through them.

One bill costs five yuan, two bills cost one yuan.

My pockets are empty.

"Seven hundred short," he said.

The voice contained no pleading intent, but simply stated a fact.

I'll make it up to you next week.

Cassie looked at Lynn.

Lynn looked at Sachi.

A veteran.

Be disciplined, endure the pain silently, and check the surrounding environment before getting on the bus.

Such people are a rare breed in ordinary gangs.

He's miles better than those drug-addicted street punks who can't even hold a gun properly.

If you build a good relationship, you should get more referrals and even unexpected benefits.

Lynn and Cassie's illegal clinic has just opened, and expanding their clientele is just as important as making money.

"No need to pay the difference. 1800 it is."

Lynn decided to do a favor, something veterans value most.

Sachi looked up at him.

Lynn was already packing up the equipment, her face expressionless.

"Next time someone needs to see a doctor, refer them to her. Get her business card before you leave."

He nodded his chin at Cassie.

Cassie pulled a red card from her pocket and handed it over. It only had a disposable number on it, which her friend had made for them, so it was very secure.

Sachi folded the note and put it in his breast pocket.

He bent down and crawled out of the carriage, one foot already on the ground, when he suddenly stopped.

Looking back.

"What does it taste like?"

He sniffed.

My gaze fell on the side pocket of Lynn's white coat, where a section of the cedar wood box was visible.

"From Cuba?"

People who have served in the military, especially those who frequented officers' clubs, usually know a thing or two.

Lynn glanced down at his pocket.

He took out the box and opened it.

Ten cigars were neatly stacked inside, their dark brown wrappers gleaming with an oily sheen.

He took one out and handed it to Sachi.