Sent to the countryside, I turned the health center into a top-tier hospital.

When I came back, a group of doctors in white coats came down the corridor. The one leading them was a director in his early fifties with gray hair and gold-rimmed glasses.

He walked with his back ramrod straight, followed by three or four resident doctors and interns, notebooks in their hands and pens clipped to their chests, each with a serious expression.

Chen Ping recognized him at a glance: Director Qian of the Gastroenterology Department. He had dealt with him a few times when he was at the hospital; he was a good person and his skills were excellent.

Director Qian also saw Chen Ping. He paused for a moment, and his expression changed from serious to surprised, and then from surprised to the kind of smile that comes with "old colleagues meeting".

He reached out his hand, and Chen Ping grasped it.

"Chen Ping, you stayed all night?" Director Qian looked him up and down.

It was obvious that Director Qian knew Chen Ping had come last night.

"It's already past midnight, it's not worth going back, so I'll just make do at the nurses' station for the night," Chen Ping said with a smile.

Director Qian nodded and led the people into the ward.

He walked to Cui Ying's father's bedside, checked his eyelids, listened to his heart and lungs, looked at the doctor's orders from the previous night, and asked a few questions.

Cui Ying's father answered each question in a low but clear voice.

After listening, Director Qian turned around, looked at the resident physician behind him, and began to explain the diagnostic approach and treatment plan for this case.

The lecture lasted for more than three minutes, covering everything from the pathological mechanisms of gastric ulcers to the differential diagnosis of acute gastric mucosal lesions. The presentation was clear, logical, and well-organized, prompting the resident physicians to jot down notes in their notebooks.

After he finished speaking, he closed the medical record book, looked at Chen Ping, and smiled.

"I heard about what happened last night. You can determine that surgery is not appropriate just by taking a medical history and observing physical signs, without even seeing the patient. Sun Lao Er's methods don't work on you. You're amazing."

Chen Ping smiled and said, "Director Qian, you flatter me. It was just a coincidence."

"happen?"

Director Qian patted him on the shoulder, "You used to work in the purchasing office, I thought you'd gotten rusty, but I didn't expect you to be even more capable than before."

He glanced at his watch, turned and walked out, but stopped after a couple of steps. "Come visit Corey sometime and tell us about it."

Chen Ping responded, and Director Qian left with his men.

The footsteps in the corridor grew fainter and fainter, eventually being drowned out by the sounds of conversation in the corridor.

The ward fell silent.

Cui Ying's mother closed the door, turned around, and looked at Cui Ying's father.

She didn't say anything, just looked at him, her hands clasped in front of her chest, her expression changing from calm to serious.

Cui Ying stood beside her with the same expression; the mother and daughter stood together like two guardian deities.

"Old Cui, how many times have I told you? Drink less, drink less, did you listen?"

Cui Ying's mother's voice wasn't loud, but every word was like a knife: "Of your friends, which one is truly sincere? Who will care about you when something happens? If Chen Ping hadn't been there last night, your belly would have been opened up, do you know that?"

Cui Ying's father lowered his head, remained silent, and looked very unnatural.

Cui Ying chimed in, her tone even more urgent than her mother's. Young and energetic, she said, "Dad, your lungs have always been weak. The doctor said you couldn't drink, you couldn't drink, but you wouldn't listen. You vomited so much blood last night, it scared me to death, you know? What would Mom and I do if anything happened to you?"

Cui Ying's father lowered his head even further, but it seemed he wasn't listening.

Chen Ping stood at the door, watching this scene, wanting to say something to persuade him.

He opened his mouth, wanting to say, "Auntie, Uncle just woke up, please don't say anything," but before he could finish speaking, a cry suddenly came from the corridor.

Not the kind of quiet sobbing, but loud crying, wailing, the kind of crying that tears your heart apart.

The sound also included the voice of a child, crying, high-pitched and thin, like a cat's meow.

Everyone in the corridor heard it. The ward door was closed, and the crying poured in from the corridor, completely drowning out Cui Ying and her mother's words.

Cui Ying's mother stopped talking, turned around, walked to the door, and peeked out.

Cui Ying followed her mother and stood behind her, craning her neck to look down the corridor.

Even Cui Ying's father sat on the hospital bed, craning his neck as if he wanted to see what was happening outside.

I wonder when Chinese people will change their tendency to love joining in the fun and their curious mindset.

Chen Ping walked out.

At the end of the corridor, a woman knelt on the ground, holding a seven or eight-year-old boy in her arms.

The woman was wearing a faded cotton-padded jacket, her hair was disheveled, her face was covered in tears, and she was trembling all over from crying.

The boy was being held in her arms, crying too, his face buried in the woman's shoulder, his little body trembling.

Two nurses stood in front of them, one trying to persuade them, the other holding a stack of forms, looking helpless.

The doors to the wards on both sides of the corridor were open, and the patients' family members peeked out. Some shook their heads, some sighed, and some muttered something under their breath.

Chen Ping stood at the door of the ward, looking at the woman and child, but did not go over.

The woman's cries grew louder and louder, and more and more patients and their families gathered in the corridor. Some took photos with their phones, while others whispered among themselves, and the nurses couldn't stop them.

Director Qian came out of the doctor's office, still holding a teacup. When he saw the scene in the corridor, he frowned and didn't rush over. He first stopped a nurse and asked her a few questions.

The nurse whispered in his ear for about a minute and pointed to the ward.

After listening, Director Qian placed his teacup on the nurses' station table, walked over, squatted down, and looked the woman in the eye.

He spoke softly, but the corridor fell silent, and everyone heard him.

"Sister-in-law, it's not that we don't want to treat it, it's just that there's really no other way."

We've used all the necessary medications and installed all the necessary equipment, but the patient's condition hasn't improved; in fact, it's gotten worse.

Our hospital has limited resources; if you stay here any longer, it won't do either the patient or you.

He paused, his voice softening further, "Why don't you consider transferring to another hospital? The medical facilities in the provincial capital are better than ours, maybe..."

Before she could finish speaking, the woman released the child, grabbed Director Qian's leg, and cried uncontrollably.

"Director Qian, please, please think of another way. He's only in his early forties, and his child is only eight years old. They can't be without a father. We don't have the money to transfer him to another hospital. We've spent all our savings, and we've borrowed from all our relatives and friends... Please, don't send us away..."

The boy stood beside her, clutching the woman's clothes with his little hands, and cried along with her until his voice was hoarse and his face was covered in tears and snot.

Director Qian was caught with his leg being hugged, unable to stand or squat, his face full of helplessness.

He reached out to help the woman up, but she wouldn't get up. He didn't dare to pull her too hard, so he just stood there, repeatedly saying, "Sister-in-law, don't do this. Get up first, let's talk."

Chen Ping stood at the door of the ward for a moment, then walked over.

As he passed the door of the ward from which the strange noise was coming from, he heard a sound coming from inside, like someone hiccuping, or like something stuck in their throat and being pushed out, one after another, very rhythmically.

He had heard this sound before; his professor had played a recording of it during class and called it a "dead man's hiccup," or hiccups in medical terms, but this was not an ordinary hiccup.

A normal hiccup sounds loud and powerful, but this sound, although loud, is weak and hollow.

It's like someone striking a cracked bell in an empty room. The sound comes out, but the underlying strength is completely lost, sounding broken yet unsettling.

This is called the exhaustion of stomach qi and the upward reversal of turbid yin. Once you reach this stage, even a god would find it difficult to save you.