Chapter 6

The doctor calls me into his office, and I sit there as he explains Mrs. Lee's condition. It is almost midnight, and I haven't slept a wink, dreading the commute to the office tomorrow, making me feel dizzy.

"I got it, Doc," I say. "I'm absolutely nothing—just a tenant who has barely seen his landlord twice during my time here. Being a human, this was all I could do. The heart attack has passed, and she survived. I am happy, but now, this is none of my business anymore."

The doctor seems to have judged me as a rude person. But I dare anyone to go through the trouble I went through for someone I don't even know.

"I guess you didn't hear me, Mr. Alex. We will have to perform a surgery to insert a stent in her heart as soon as possible. We found a dangerous level of blockage, which might cause another heart attack soon. She might not survive the next one."

"I heard every single word you said, but I'm not her family. How can I have a say in this?"

"Mr. Alex, you're not understanding the severity of this medical emergency. I agree that you have nothing to do with the patient, but the hospital only knows you. All I'm asking is that you try to contact any family member, wherever they may be in the world. The patient is in a fragile state, and another heart attack could be fatal. You can save a life by providing us with a contact for her immediate family. That's all I ask. You can leave if you want."

I walk out of the nosy doctor's office. This town continues to surprise me—people at my firm do not take their work as seriously as this doctor does. I have never seen a doctor as persistent as him back in Shanghai.

Stepping outside the hospital, I realize what a mistake it was to follow her here. It is 1 a.m., and there is no cab or bus in sight. The area is completely isolated from the city. I have no other option but to stay the night here.

I return to Mrs. Lee's room. Ironically, she is now providing me with the help I need. I wouldn't want to sleep in the lobby, so at least I can use the chair beside her bed to rest on.

I feel exhausted—even yawning continuously seems like a laborious task. As I look around, the ER is still chaotic, but amidst the commotion, I see family members sleeping beside their loved ones with no trouble at all. As soon as I rest my head on a small pillow, my eyes feel heavy, and sleep overtakes me. Even in the deepest sleep, I can feel the eerie vibes of the hospital.

Something bothers me even in my sleep, as if I am resting in a grave. I can hear the noises of people groaning in pain around me, light sobs of men and the wailing of women in the ER, with the scary beeps of machines and the sound of beds being moved in and out.

The next morning, I wake up late, of course. As soon as my eyes open, I know I am late without even looking at the time—I feel so refreshed, as if I have slept for an entire day. I quickly glance at my watch and realize it is strangely an hour before I have to reach the office.

I get up and take a look at Mrs. Lee and the monitor behind her, her heart still beating, thankfully. I rush out of the hospital and find a ride home.

As I get off on my street and head toward my staircase, a thought bothers me. Did the old man get anything to eat last night? He can't even move on his own.

My mind tries to dismiss these concerns, as I have my own problems to deal with. But when I think twice, I can't shake off their situation. How could there be so many difficulties in someone's life—a thought I have never had for anyone else except myself.

My feet involuntarily walk backward, and my hand automatically knocks on their door. Knowing no one will answer, I push open the door left ajar since last night. As I step in, I see a clean, fragrant, and beautiful house. The only painful sight is the old man sitting on the sofa with his eyes closed, food on a table beside him, probably left there by neighbors before me.

And then I notice the most heart-wrenching thing—his wet pants. My heart feels heavier than a stone. Normally, I wouldn't care this much about anyone, but their story haunts me. Taking more liberty, I enter deeper into the house, searching for any information to contact their so-called children.

I check every drawer, every cabinet, every surface. Finally, I move to their bedroom, not considering it a crime. The only thing I find is a photo frame on the nightstand, similar to where I place my son's picture.

In the picture, the old man looks healthy and smiles brightly, alongside a young man and a little girl whose smile is like a million stars. Her eyes seem to shine, as if looking at me through the picture.

Then I notice a drawer in the nightstand. I open it and, after rummaging through the contents, find a little note with a phone number and the name "Lily" written below it. The number appears to be international.