Ice skates forward, regardless of east or west.

1

2:17 a.m.

Gu Xidong was awakened by the scalding.

It is not an adjective.

It was really hot—the left shoulder was pressed against Ling Wuwen's forehead, and the temperature of the skin in contact was like that of a hot water bottle.

He opened his eyes in the darkness and turned his head to look at her.

The light from the streetlights outside the window seeped through the gaps in the curtains, cutting a narrow, long line of light across her face.

Her eyes were closed, her breathing rapid, her lips dry and chapped. Her brow was furrowed.

He reached out and touched her forehead.

It's burning hot. Not the kind of burning you get when you have a fever, but the kind of burning you feel like there's a furnace burning under your skin.

He turned his hand over and pressed the back of his hand against her cheek—the back of the hand is more sensitive to temperature.

It's still hot.

He sat up and turned on the bedside lamp.

The moment the lights came on, her eyelids fluttered, and she mumbled something.

He leaned down and listened closely.

"cold."

Her voice was very soft. He saw that her lips were trembling, not from the cold, but from the uncontrollable trembling of her muscles due to a high fever.

He pulled out a thermometer from the cabinet.

Aim at your forehead and press the button.

39.8 ° C.

He put the thermometer back on the bedside table and wrapped her tightly in the blanket.

The blanket is too thin; it's an air-conditioned blanket for summer.

He stood up, took two down jackets from the closet, covered her with one, and placed the other under her feet.

She was still trembling.

He went into the kitchen and boiled water.

The electric kettle makes a buzzing sound as it heats up, amplified in the silence of the early morning.

When the water boiled, steam sprayed out and hit his face.

He poured half a cup of boiling water, added half a cup of mineral water, and tested the temperature of the cup with his finger.

Not hot, just lukewarm.

Take it back to the bedroom.

She wasn't in her original spot.

She huddled in the corner of the bed, her back against the wall, her knees drawn up to her chest, curling herself into a ball.

His eyes were half-open, his pupils unfocused, not on him.

"Ling Wuwen." He squatted down and looked her in the eye.

She didn't react.

"Ling Wuwen," he called again.

Her lips moved slightly.

He held the water glass to her lips.

She didn't open her mouth.

He gently touched her lower lip with the rim of the cup, and warm water seeped into the corner of her mouth.

She swallowed. First sip, second sip, third sip. After feeding her half a cup of water, he put the cup on the ground.

Her eyes slowly focused.

It landed on his face.

"Gu..." she stopped.

His brow furrowed.

It's not the pain, it's the tension when you try to remember.

"What's your name?"

He looked at her.

Three seconds. Five seconds. Ten seconds.

"Gu Xidong," he said.

She repeated, "Gu Xidong."

"Yes."

She slowly loosened her curled-up body.

Keep your knees flat and your back away from the wall.

He helped her from the corner of the bed back to her pillow and covered her with the blanket again.

She was still looking at him.

"I forgot," she said.

"Um."

"I've forgotten your name."

"Do you remember now?"

She nodded.

He sat on the edge of the bed.

She reached her hand out from under the covers and grasped his wrist.

Her palms were burning hot, her fingers were cold. She gripped him tightly, her nails digging into his skin.

"My brother is here," she said.

He didn't speak.

"He was standing at the door just now." She looked towards the bedroom door.

"He was wearing a blue tracksuit, the same one he wore to the 2017 National Championships. He said..."

She stopped.

"What did you say?"

He said, "You should go."

2

At 4 a.m., his body temperature rose to 40.1°C.

Gu Xidong dialed the emergency number.

The phone rang three times before being answered.

He gave them his address, and they asked about his symptoms. He said he had a high fever, was confused, and was hallucinating.

"Past medical history?"

He paused for a second.

Brain tissue transplantation.

There was a two-second silence on the other end of the phone.

The operator repeated: "Brain tissue transplant?"

"Yes."

"Patient's name?"

"Ling Wuwen".

The operator didn't ask any more questions.

The ambulance arrived seventeen minutes later.

The reporters who were waiting downstairs were startled awake, and their flashes went off through the car windows.

Gu Xidong carried Ling Wuwen into the car. She was wrapped in a blanket, her eyes closed, and her lips were chapped from the heat.

As the ambulance started moving, he saw a young reporter in the van holding up his phone and taking pictures of the ambulance.

3

Emergency Department of Chaoyang Hospital.

The fluorescent lights in the corridor were blindingly white.

The stretcher wheels screeched as they rolled over the paving stones. The nurse jogged along, pushing the trolley, the IV bag swaying on its stand.

Gu Xidong was stopped outside the emergency room.

The door closed.

The glass windows on the door were covered with frosted film, so he couldn't see anything. He stood in the doorway, his hand resting on the wall.

The wall was cool, painted white, with a few black marks from when the stretcher was pushed over it.

A nurse pushed open the door and came out.

"Family members?"

"Yes."

"Ling Wuwen?"

"Yes."

The nurse glanced at him, said nothing more, and quickly walked towards the nurses' station.

He stood still.

Three minutes later, another nurse came out, holding a folder.

"signature."

He took the pen and signed his name in the designated spot.

The pen was a ballpoint pen, and the ink flow was uneven; he had to write twice before the words were clear.

"Wait outside," the nurse said.

The door closed again.

4

An hour later, the doctor came out.

A woman in her thirties, her hair tucked into her hat, with a few stray hairs peeking out from her temples.

After taking off the mask, there were pressure marks on my face and dark circles under my eyes.

"Did Ling Wuwen ask about his family?"

Gu Xidong stood up.

The doctor glanced at him, didn't exchange pleasantries, and said directly:

"The transplanted brain tissue is intensifying its conflict with the host's immune system. The patient's current body temperature is 40.3°C, white blood cell count is abnormal, and the nervous system is showing signs of stress."

Gu Xidong listened.

"I contacted the neurology department at Xuanwu Hospital, and they will send an expert over for a consultation tomorrow morning. Currently, we are using antipyretics and hormones to control the symptoms, but this is only treating the symptoms, not the root cause."

What is a fundamental solution?

The doctor paused.

"Immunosuppressants. High doses, long-term use."

"What are the risks?"

"Damaging your immune system. A common cold, a skin infection, or a simple viral infection can all be fatal."

At the end of the corridor, someone pushed a stretcher past.

The sound of wheels rolling over the ground grew closer and then faded into the distance.

"Are there any other options?" Gu Xidong asked.

"Yes," the doctor said. "No immunosuppressants are needed; the rejection reaction will develop naturally."

"And the result?"

"Brain tissue necrosis, multiple organ failure, death."

He stood still.

The doctor waited for him to ask the next question. He didn't.

The doctor took a business card out of his pocket and handed it to him. It was white and only contained his name and phone number.

"Director Wang from Xuanwu Hospital will be here at nine o'clock tomorrow morning. You can talk to him."

She turned around, pushed open the door, and walked into the emergency room.

The door closed in front of him.

5

5:50 a.m.

The emergency room door opened.

Ling Wuwen was pushed out. Her eyes were closed, her face was bloodless, and her lips were dry and cracked.

An IV line was inserted into his left arm, and the IV tube led to a fluid bag hanging on the side of the stretcher.

The nurse pushed the cart toward the observation room.

Gu Xidong followed beside him.

Her hands were outside the blanket, her fingertips pale and her nails bluish.

He reached out and grasped it. He didn't use any force, just enveloped it.

She didn't react.

The observation room is for eight people. Six beds are occupied.

The innermost bed by the window was empty. The nurse pushed the stretcher over and, together with another person, moved her onto the bed.

Raise the head of the bed by thirty degrees.

The blanket was pulled up to my chest.

The nurse adjusted the IV drip rate and hung a red warning sign at the head of the bed.

The sign read: "Immunosuppression - Beware of isolation."

The nurse left.

Gu Xidong sat down on the chair by the bed.

The chair is made of plastic, gray in color, and has uneven legs, so it wobbles when you sit on it.

It was almost dawn outside the window. The eastern sky changed from black to deep blue, and then from deep blue to grayish-white.

Across from the hospital building are residential buildings, with clothes hanging out to dry on the balconies. Someone is smoking on the balcony, the cigarette butt glowing and then dimming in the morning light.

He turned to look at her.

Her eyes were open.

I don't know when she opened her eyes. Her pupils focused on his face, and she stared at him for a few seconds.

"Gu Xidong," she said.

I didn't forget this time.

"Um."

"What time is it?"

"It's almost six o'clock."

She slowly turned her eyes, looking at the ceiling, the IV bottle, and the red warning sign by the bedside.

"Immune suppression," she read aloud.

He didn't speak.

Her gaze shifted back to his face.

"Will I die?"

He looked at her.

"Won't."

Her lips twitched. It wasn't a smile, just a brief twitch of the muscles at the corner of her mouth.

You lied to me.

"I'm not lying."

She closed her eyes.

The liquid in the IV tubing dripped down, drop by drop.

The dripping was slow, so slow you could count it. One drop, two drops, three drops. She opened her eyes when it was four drops.

"I just dreamt about my brother," she said.

What did you dream about him about?

"He didn't say anything. He just stood there looking at me. He was wearing a blue tracksuit, the same one from 2017. I saw his lips move, trying to hear what he was saying, but I couldn't hear him. I took a step closer, and he took a step back. I took another step closer, and he took another step back."

She stopped.

Then I woke up.

Gu Xidong gripped her hand tightly.

6

Eight o'clock in the morning.

The nurse came to change the IV bag.

Ling Wuwen's temperature dropped to 38.4℃. She regained consciousness, was able to drink water on her own, and could answer questions. When the nurse asked her name, she said Ling Wuwen.

When asked her date of birth, she said August 17, 1994. When asked where she was now, she said the hospital.

The nurse ticks a box in the logbook.

"Director Wang will arrive at nine o'clock," the nurse said.

"He is the best expert in the field of brain transplantation in China. You can talk to him in detail."

The nurse left.

Ling Wuwen stared at the ceiling.

"Go back," she said.

"I won't reply."

There are reporters downstairs.

"Make them wait."

She turned to look at him.

He sat on the rickety plastic chair, his left leg stretched out, his right hand holding hers.

"You have a knee injury," she said.

"Um."

"The chair is hard."

"Um."

"You should go back and rest."

He did not answer.

She watched the liquid in the IV bag drip down, drop by drop. One drop, two drops, three drops.

"I might die," she said.

He held her hand tightly.

"Probably not."

She didn't say anything more.

Outside the window, the sun has risen.

Sunlight streamed through the gaps in the residential buildings across the street, cutting a narrow golden strip on the hospital room floor.

The narrow strip moved slowly, from the doorway to the foot of the bed, and from the foot of the bed to her feet.

She looked at the sunlight.

"It's a beautiful day," she said.

7

It was exactly 9:00 AM.

Director Wang pushed the door open and came in.

He was in his fifties, with gray hair, wearing gold-rimmed glasses, and had three pens tucked into the pocket of his white coat.

Two young doctors followed behind him, one carrying a medical record folder and the other pushing a portable ultrasound machine.

"Ling Wuwen?" He walked to the bedside.

"Yes."

Director Wang pulled over the plastic chair and sat down. The chair wobbled slightly, but he steadied himself and looked at Ling Wuwen.

Do you know your own situation?

"Chimera instability period".

"Who told you that?"

"The previous doctor."

Director Wang nodded.

He took a piece of paper out of his pocket, unfolded it, and it showed her brain CT scan.

He held the paper up to her eyes.

"This is the CT scan you had yesterday."

She looked at the black and white image.

The outline of the brain, the boundary between gray and white matter, the location of the ventricles. She couldn't understand it.

Director Wang pointed to an area on the image.

"This is the location for the transplanted brain tissue. Do you see these white spots?"

She looked. There were white ones, tiny ones.

"Those are traces left by the immune system's attack," Director Wang said. "If it continues to develop, the transplanted tissue will die, leading to intracranial infection and multiple organ failure."

She looked away from the image.

It landed on his face.

"so?"

"So there are two options." Director Wang placed the CT images on the bedside table.

"First, use immunosuppressants. High doses, long-term use, possibly lifelong use. They can control rejection reactions, but they will destroy the body's own immune system."

He paused.

"Secondly, no need. Let the rejection reaction develop naturally, leading to brain tissue necrosis, intracranial infection, and multiple organ failure. The duration varies from person to person, but it is generally three to six months."

Ling Wuwen stared at the ceiling.

"What would happen if we used immunosuppressants?" she said.

Director Wang adjusted his glasses.

"You will survive. But any cold, any skin break, any viral infection could kill you. You will need to isolate yourself for life, avoid crowded places, avoid contact with sick people, avoid eating undercooked food, and so on..."

"Unable to live a normal life."

"Yes."

The ward was quiet.

There was the sound of an ambulance outside the window.

It got closer and louder, then stopped at the building entrance. The sound of a stretcher being pushed by, the sound of running footsteps, and someone shouting "Make way!"

The sound gradually faded away.

Ling Wuwen turned to look at Gu Xidong.

He sat in that chair, holding her hand. He looked at her, but didn't say anything.

She looked back at him.

Three seconds. Five seconds. Ten seconds.

"You choose," she said.

His Adam's apple bobbed.

"I won't choose," he said.

Her lips twitched. This time it was a genuine smile, very faint, just a slight curve at the corners of her mouth.

Are you afraid of making the wrong choice?

He looked at her.

"Choosing either way is wrong," he said.

She didn't ask any more questions.

The sunlight outside the window moved another inch.

A narrow strip of golden yellow moved from her feet to her calves, leaving a bright patch on the surface of the quilt.

Director Wang stood up.

"You have three days to consider," he said. "You must decide after three days."

He turned and left.

Two young doctors followed.

The door closed.

The ward became quiet again.

The only sound was the dripping of fluid from the IV tube. One drop, two drops, three drops.

Ling Wuwen closed his eyes.

"Three days," she said.

Gu Xidong looked out the window.

Sunlight streamed into the hospital room, illuminating her face. Her eyelashes cast tiny shadows in the light, trembling gently with each breath.

He looked at the shadows.

Looked for a long time.