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

Around noon, Chen Ping went to the boiler room. When he passed by the woman's ward, the door was open.

Chen Ping saw that the man, who was so thin he looked almost unrecognizable, had several data monitoring instruments around his hospital bed.

This is a setup by pharmaceutical companies to monitor the clinical response of drugs.

The woman and her child were eating when she looked up and saw Chen Ping at the door of the ward. The woman didn't say anything and lowered her head.

Chen Ping shook his head helplessly and went to the water room to fetch water.

Cui Ying arrived at noon, carrying two insulated bags, one containing vegetables and the other containing rice.

She brought two boxes of food from home: braised pork ribs, stir-fried broccoli, tomato and egg soup, and rice.

She laid out the food one by one, and Chen Ping helped her set up the small table on the bed. Cui Ying's father sat on the edge of the bed to eat, while Chen Ping sat on the folding bed to eat.

The ribs were stewed until very tender, falling off the bone with a touch of chopsticks, and the soup was piping hot, unlike the kind of large pot soup found in hospital cafeterias.

Cui Ying sat next to them, holding a glass of water. She hadn't eaten, and asked them what they were doing that afternoon.

Chen Ping suggested playing chess, but Cui Ying's father said, "I won't play with him; I can't win."

Cui Ying smiled and handed the water glass to her father.

After finishing his meal, Chen Ping called Zhao Guosheng.

I answered the phone after it rang three times. The other end was very noisy, with the sounds of an electric drill, a hammer hitting the wall, and someone shouting.

"Dr. Chen! When are you coming back? The health center is almost finished! The walls of the clinic have all been painted, all the windows have been replaced, and the wards have been cleaned up too. White walls and white sheets, it looks even brighter than the county hospital!" Zhao Guosheng's excited voice came.

Chen Ping asked him if he had enough money.

Zhao Guosheng said that the 500,000 yuan from the county had arrived in his account, and with what he had saved before, it was enough, and there was still some left over to buy medicine.

He said the construction team would need a few more days to finish up, so Chen Ping could have a few more days to relax.

Chen Ping said he understood and hung up the phone.

I played another game of chess in the afternoon.

Cui Ying's father lost and stopped playing. He leaned against the bed and looked at his phone.

Chen Ping sat by the window, looking down at the courtyard. The leaves of the sycamore tree were scattered all over the ground, unswept, rustling loudly in the wind.

Cui Ying came again in the evening.

She came with her mother this time.

This time I brought different dishes: steamed sea bass, water spinach with garlic, and winter melon meatball soup.

She laid out the dishes, and Cui Ying's father glanced at the fish and said, "You made fish again?" Cui Ying replied, "Don't you like to eat fish?"

Cui Ying's father stopped talking, picked up a piece of fish belly meat with his chopsticks, put it in his mouth, chewed it, and nodded.

Chen Ping ate one bowl of rice, then had another half bowl.

Cui Ying sat next to him, picked up a piece of fish for him, and pushed the water spinach towards him.

After finishing their meal, Chen Ping cleared away the dishes and, after a brief chat, Cui Ying and her mother left.

Chen Ping pulled out the folding bed, spread out the quilt, lay down, and that's how another day went by!

The next morning, Chen Ping was awakened by crying in the corridor.

It wasn't the loud, wailing cry of the day before yesterday; it was a suppressed, intermittent sobbing, crying a couple of times, pausing, then crying a couple more times, like someone was choking me, making it hard to breathe.

He opened his eyes. The nightlight was still on, and Cui Ying's father was still asleep, snoring softly.

The sounds in the corridor grew louder and louder. It wasn't just one person crying; there were also children crying, their cries sharp and piercing.

Chen Ping sat up from the folding bed, put on his shoes, and opened the door.

A crowd had gathered at the entrance to the ward at the end of the corridor.

There were patients in hospital gowns, family members carrying breakfast, and two nurses on duty standing at the door, unsure whether to go in or back, their faces showing anxiety and panic.

The sound of crying came from inside; it was the woman's voice, hoarse and broken, unlike the sound a human throat could make.

Chen Ping walked over, and the crowd parted to make way for him. He squeezed through to the doorway and saw what was happening inside.

All the monitoring equipment in the ward was beeping.

The numbers on the ECG monitor were jumping rapidly, 150, 160, 170, and the blood pressure readings were also dropping. The beeping alarms were continuous, making it impossible to distinguish one from another.

The emaciated man lay on the bed, something coming out of his mouth—not blood, but a yellow liquid—dripping down the corner of his mouth, soaking a large area of ​​the pillow.

His eyes were half-open, his pupils rolled upwards, revealing only the whites of his eyes, and he was making a gurgling sound in his throat, as if something was stuck inside him, unable to come up or go down.

The woman knelt beside the bed, clutching the man's hand. Her face was streaked with tears, her mouth snot running down her cheeks, and her lips trembled as she repeatedly uttered the same question: "Where's the doctor? Why isn't the doctor here yet?"

The child stood beside her, clinging to the woman's arm, also crying, his whole body trembling, his little face flushed red.

Two nurses were bustling around the bedside, one adjusting the IV drip rate and the other flipping through the patient's medical record, but they dared not touch the monitoring equipment.

The equipment was labeled with the pharmaceutical company's nameplate, which was white and had serial numbers and QR codes printed on it. Each line was connected to the pharmaceutical company's data terminal.

Chen Ping stood at the door, glanced at the numbers on the electrocardiogram monitor, and then at the man's face.

That's not a normal fluctuation in the condition; it's a reaction to the medication, the body rejecting something.

Director Qian ran over from the other end of the corridor.

The white coat was buttoned up haphazardly, the collar was uneven, and his hair was messy; he had clearly been called from home by phone.

He squeezed into the ward, glanced at the cardiac monitor, then at the man's face, paused, and his expression changed several times.

When the woman saw Director Qian, she let go of the man's hand, rushed over, hugged his leg tightly, and cried uncontrollably.

"Director Qian, please, please save my husband, he's dying..."

Director Qian looked down at her, his lips moved slightly, but he didn't say anything.

His gaze swept across the monitoring equipment, then back, settling on the infusion pump labeled with the pharmaceutical company's logo.

He took a deep breath, helped the woman up from the ground, and said, "Sister-in-law, we can't interfere in this situation."

Clinical trials have strict protocols. Once patients are enrolled, all treatments must be administered according to the pharmaceutical company's plan; we cannot change it midway through the process.

Otherwise the data will be inaccurate, and the pharmaceutical companies will hold the hospital accountable, a responsibility I cannot bear.

The woman froze for a second, then shook her head frantically, tears streaming down her face. "I don't want the pharmaceutical company's money anymore. We won't participate in the drug trials. Please save him, please save him..."

Director Qian didn't budge, his voice still so low that only the woman could hear, "The agreement is signed, sister-in-law, there's no going back."

The woman's legs went weak again, and she slid down to her knees, her forehead hitting the floor tiles with a thud, then another, each thud heavier than the last, quickly leaving a red mark on the tiles.

The child stood beside them, too frightened to cry, his little mouth agape, his eyes wide open, completely still.

More and more people filled the corridor; some shook their heads, some sighed, and some took photos with their phones.