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

Cassie sat on the folding stool in the ambulance.

On the portable gas stove next to it.

White glutinous rice balls tumbled in boiling water, and the rising steam added a touch of warmth to the carriage, which was filled with the smell of disinfectant.

Lynn bought this specifically from a Chinese supermarket.

Today is the fifteenth day of the first lunar month.

On the other side of the ocean, it is the Lantern Festival.

Cassie picked up a glutinous rice ball with a pair of curved tweezers and then carefully took a bite.

The black sesame filling oozed out, so hot that she gasped for breath.

Lynn pinched her ear.

"In my hometown, if you get burned, you have to pinch your ears."

"You're a chief resident, how can you believe in this kind of pseudoscience?" Cassie said, somewhat surprised.

Lynn smiled but did not answer.

"The texture is strange, it's sticky."

Cassie chewed and commented, his brow furrowed.

"Don't you Chinese put sugar in your desserts?"

"For Chinese people, this is sweet enough."

Lynn leaned against the medicine cabinet, holding a disposable paper cup in her hand, watching the glutinous rice balls floating in the cup.

What are the elderly couple in the family doing now?

Perhaps he's eating a tasteless dinner while looking at a black and white photograph.

Lynn lowered her eyes, concealing the bitterness that welled up inside her.

He can't contact his parents directly, so how can he explain it to them? He doesn't want to scare the old couple in the end.

The only thing we can do now is to make money.

Once they've obtained enough money, they use underground banks or complex trust structures to launder it, disguised as insurance claims or anonymous donations, and send it back to its origin.

This is the last bit of retirement security he can provide for them.

"Hey, what are you spacing out for?"

Cassie's voice pulled him back to reality.

She had already finished the bowl of glutinous rice balls, and licked the sesame seeds off her lips with a lingering sense of satisfaction.

"It actually tastes pretty good even after eating a lot!"

She stared at Lynn's eyes and suddenly said, "Let's play Contra one more time before we go back."

"OK."

Lynn put down the paper cup, her face regaining its usual radiance.

Cassie clapped her hands.

"Oh dear! I was so busy eating that I forgot to pay the bill! We'll play again later."

She picked up the notebook again.

Last month, we performed five surgeries, earning a total of 8,500.

She and Lynn are partners, sharing the risks equally and splitting the profits according to their agreement.

Fair and just, no more and no less.

"Miller's protection fee has risen to 1,500 a week. Medicines and supplies cost 2,300, and that's the amount I can smuggle from the hospital. Any more and the pharmacy system will flag me."

"The net profit is 2,700. You get 7, I get 3; you get 1890, I get 810."

What does this amount of money mean in New York?

Half a month's worth of groceries.

A ticket to a mid-range ball game.

This amount of money is not enough to provide security for the elderly couple, and he himself will have to pay off his huge student loan debt until he is sixty years old.

They thought they could make a lot of money by opening an illegal clinic, but they never expected that they would end up working for the protectors of their clinics.

Lynn was well aware of the problems involved.

Customer base.

The patients Miller referred were all relatively small, with a maximum of one to three thousand.

Moreover, it all depends on Miller's pipeline to deliver it here; if he says it's there, it's there; if he says it's not, it's not.

We must grow big, otherwise we'll be working for Miller forever.

With this little money, let alone allowing that elderly couple to live out their old age in peace, it would be difficult to even pay off my own student loans.

The promotion to chief resident requires a lengthy approval process, and even if promoted, a resident remains a resident without a significant increase in income.

At midnight, Lynn and Cassie finished playing games and returned to their apartment.

He lay on the bed without turning on the light, staring at the cracks in the ceiling.

I could hear my neighbor's TV downstairs, playing a late-night Spanish program.

The walls were as thin as paper; even a cough could penetrate them.

The phone rang.

Lynn picked it up and glanced at it.

Grant?

He accepted it.

"Dr. Lin, I'm sorry to bother you."

Grant's voice was completely different from when he was with the Speaker; it was as relaxed as a middle-aged man taking a walk on the balcony after dinner.

Are you free tomorrow at noon? I'd like to treat you to lunch.

"What is it?"

"Let's talk in person. It's hard to explain over the phone."

Grant gave an address.

Lower Manhattan, near Murray Hill.

Indian food.

……

Lynn arrived on time at noon the next day.

The restaurant is tucked away on a quiet side street in Murray Hill. It has a small storefront and no sign.

As soon as you push open the door, the aroma of spices hits you.

Grant was already seated inside, wearing a dark blue linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and without his glasses.

He was talking to the landlady in Hindi.

The proprietress smiled broadly, placed two extra pancakes on the table, and left.

Grant saw Lynn and raised his hand to greet her:

"Have a seat. The tandoori roast chicken and the butter chicken here are quite good. Do you eat spicy food?"

"Can."

"Then add a Vindaloo, normal spiciness."

Lynn sat down and glanced around the restaurant.

Grant didn't rush to get down to business; he first chatted about the Speaker's health.

The roast chicken is served.

Grant tore off a piece of chicken thigh meat, dipped it in mint sauce, and enjoyed it immensely.

He took a few bites and suddenly said, "You know, the Speaker rarely has a good impression of young people."

Lynn didn't respond, waiting for him to continue.

"He's always been very critical of people. In his eyes, most young people are inexperienced, all talk and no action."

Grant wiped his fingers with a napkin.

"But he mentioned you several times. Not to praise your medical skills, but to say that you 'know when to act and when to stop.'"

Grant was laying the groundwork.

"So there's something I'd like to ask for your opinion on."

Grant leaned back in his chair, picked up a mango latte, and spoke casually.

"I have a friend who does some community-level health services in the South Bronx. It's grassroots work, not exactly high-profile, but it has definitely helped a lot of people."

Lynn listened.

"He's currently looking for a surgeon who is skilled and reliable. The pay is good, and it's paid in cash."

After Grant finished speaking, he put Lassie down and squeezed some lemon juice onto the chicken.

The rhythm of the whole speech was like the plate of tandoori he ordered—cooked to perfection, served slowly and deliberately.

He did not explain why he chose Lynn, nor did he imply any exchange of benefits.

It was just something mentioned casually at the dinner table; you can take it or not, it won't affect the taste of the meal.

But Lynn knew that wasn't the case.

Grant is the chief of staff to the speaker of the New York City Council.

The matter he brought up couldn't be that simple.

But Grant clearly has no intention of revealing the inside story now.

And Lynn wouldn't ask.

He knew that the less he knew, the safer he was.

As long as the money is real and you're careful to ensure your safety, nothing else matters.

So Lynn only said one word: "Okay."

Grant smiled.

He took a business card out of his pants pocket, placed it on the table, and pushed it towards him.

A white cardstock with only a name and a phone number on it.