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

Cassie emerged, her hair still damp with electrical wire, and looked at Lynn.

"During the surgery, Sachi was in charge of keeping watch and being careful; we couldn't wait for them to knock on the door."

"If it's a regular police officer like the NYPD, just give them some money and send them away."

"If it's the DEA or FBI... or a malicious gang."

"Let's just drive away. We'll let Miller figure something out later," Lynn said.

Both of them stared at him at the same time.

"You're driving off while the patient's still on the table?" Sachi frowned slightly.

Lynn pushed the monitor to the fixed position, and the buckle clicked to lock it in place.

"We are not a hospital, we are a vehicle."

He patted the unmoving stainless steel countertop.

"It's all welded shut, the patient is strapped to it. You drive, I'll continue working from behind."

The veteran took out his keys and hung up the sun visor on the driver's side.

This signifies that he has taken over the steering wheel of the car, and also indicates his subsequent role as driver and bodyguard.

"UV disinfection lamp, brand new." Cassie dragged out the last piece of equipment and plugged it in.

The cool blue light illuminated the eight-square-meter carriage.

Closed, sterile, and stable.

Lynn stood in the blue light.

"Cassie, how much does it cost to go to a proper emergency room for appendicitis if someone doesn't have health insurance?"

"Starting at 30,000," Cassie said fluently.

"We'll charge five thousand."

Lynn turned off the UV light. "Hernia repair is also five thousand. Major surgeries like abdominal or thoracic drainage are eight to ten thousand."

The carriage fell silent.

Cassie looked down at her notebook, drawing circles on the paper with the tip of her pencil.

"Even if you only perform four appendectomies a month... that's an extra 20,000!?"

She circled the number twice.

When she looked up at the beat-up Ford again, her expression changed.

Originally, I felt bad about spending 8,500 yuan on the car and all those other miscellaneous expenses, but now I just feel that the chipped bumper is not worthy of the money tree inside.

Cassie licked her lips.

She pulled a crumpled little notebook out of her back pocket.

Twenty thousand US dollars.

Without seeing the numbers on paper, she always felt they might sprout wings and fly back to the slums of Brooklyn at any moment.

The pencil stub scratched on the paper as Cassie began to do the math.

After finishing her calculations, she closed the notebook and turned to look at Sachi, who was leaning against the door.

"Sachi, lend me your lighter."

Sachi raised an eyebrow, pulled the brass-colored Zippo from his pocket, and tossed it over.

Cassie caught it.

With a "click," flames shot up.

Without the slightest hesitation, she tore off the page that had just been filled with writing, set it on fire, and threw it into a medical stainless steel tray.

The firelight illuminated the carriage.

Lynn, who was about to get off the car, stopped and turned around, her gaze falling on the burning tray.

I remember everything you said.

Cassie stared at the rapidly carbonizing pages.

"Having the ledger in the car is crucial evidence. But I'm a bit slow on the uptake; the numbers won't get into my head unless I write them down."

She looked up and met Lynn's gaze.

Those eyes no longer held the greedy protectiveness of the past; instead, they revealed a savage, ruthless energy.

"This is just a transition. Give me some time to get used to it, and I promise, I won't need a single piece of paper anymore. I'll have all the accounts memorized!"

The only sound in the carriage was the soft crackling of paper burning to ashes.

Lynn looked at the pages of paper that had turned to charred ash in the saucer, his eyes filled with undisguised admiration.

He pulled out a sterile gauze and handed it over.

"Wipe it off, you've got some ash on your face."

Cassie took the gauze and wiped it haphazardly.

"Since you're so aware of this, then let's do as you say."

Lynn looked at her and said, "From now on, every week, summarize the accounts in your mind and write them down in a notebook, then show them to me."

"Then, create a password that only you can understand and store it in an anonymous safe deposit box at Chase Bank."

"While I may not have your friend's advanced skills, this shouldn't be a problem for you, right?"

Cassie nodded vigorously.

"As a reward."

Lynn continued:

"We'll give you an extra $500 in accounting fees every month from now on. As the business grows, this amount will increase."

Cassie suddenly raised her head, unable to suppress the smile on her face.

Five hundred? Every month?!

"On the condition that you don't send us to Rikers Island prison."

Sachi leaned against the inner wall of the carriage.

His gaze shifted from the ashes in the saucer to Lynn's retreating figure, then swept over Cassie, who seemed to be on steroids.

No need for verbal reprimands; subordinates can proactively eliminate potential hazards.

The boss, going along with the trend, affirmed this ambition with benefits.

This approach is quite good.

Back then, that's how his captain molded a group of rebellious recruits into an elite squad.

The veteran straightened his body and tucked in his hunched back.

He took out his car keys and twirled them between his fingers.

I opened the car door and got into the driver's seat.

Lynn dialed Arjun's number. The new car was finished, so naturally they needed to get some goods worthy of high-end surgery.

The person who answered the phone was a strange man with a heavy accent.

"The owner is in the shop at 187 Morris Avenue."

He hung up immediately after saying that.

This place is only three blocks away from the underground clinic they visited last time.

"Let's go." Lynn patted the driver's seat.

Sachi took the key from the sun visor and started the unmarked secondhand Ford RV.

"Cassie, you should go back. It's not safe there."

The little girl, who had been excited, pouted and watched helplessly as the Ford's exhaust fumes disappeared into the distance.

Fifteen minutes later, the car stopped in front of an inconspicuous pharmacy.

The sign reads "Patel Pharmacy".

The neon tube between the "P" and "L" was broken, flashing annoyingly in the Bronx night.

The shop window was covered with Spanish flyers that read "Accepting Medicaid" and "Free Blood Pressure Check".

Lynn left Satchel in the car and got in.

The store is cramped, with four rows of shelves crammed full, and the aisle is only wide enough for one person to squeeze through sideways.

Behind the cashier, the New York State Pharmacy License hangs neatly.

Arjun stood behind the medicine dispensing station.

The white coat was buttoned up meticulously to the top, and a registered pharmacist badge was pinned to the chest.

Lynn almost didn't recognize him.

The last time we met, this Indian man was standing under the cold lights in the basement.

Behind him stood bodyguards armed with submachine guns, directing Lynn to disembowel the drug addict.

At that moment, he was wearing gold-rimmed glasses and reading the prescription word by word to a middle-aged Puerto Rican woman who looked exhausted.

"Ms. Rosa, this is amlodipine. Take one tablet daily in the morning. Do not break it in half."

His English had a curry accent, but he pronounced each word very heavily, as if afraid the other person wouldn't understand.

"Absolutely do not eat it with grapefruit. Measure your blood pressure twice a day, morning and evening, write it down in a notebook, and bring it to the doctor at your next follow-up appointment."

The middle-aged woman named Rosa nodded repeatedly; half of her hair had turned white prematurely.

"Mr. Patel, the medicine here is so cheap. Last time I got these three medicines from CVS, it cost me over $420."

Arjun took off his glasses and smiled gently.

"We operate on a low-profit, high-volume model to serve the community."

He handed over a copy of the prescription.

"Total $168."

$168.

Lynn did a quick mental calculation and realized it was only 40% of the original drug's retail price.