Chapter 24

Meng Zixian was admitted to the thoracic surgery department of Mount Sinai Hospital.

The resident doctor said the injured lung tissue is too inelastic to withstand the intense training you're used to. When you came in a few weeks ago, the clinic staff told you to rest for at least three months, otherwise you'd risk pulmonary edema or infection. Clearly, you're not taking the advice seriously; you'd rather I reinstall your chest tube.

"My preliminary diagnosis is high-altitude pulmonary edema. Considering your surgical history, your heavy-lift mountaineering at high altitude a week ago, and your near-drowning situation..."

"I didn't, ahem, it wasn't me who almost drowned." Meng Zixuan interrupted him.

"Oh, sorry." The doctor glanced down at the tablet without any apology. "It says here that you were swimming at the beach not long ago and nearly drowned. Was that a mistake made by the nurse? Drowning is also a cause of pulmonary edema."

Meng Zixuan started coughing as soon as he opened his mouth, and he didn't explain any further.

The oxygen mask rested on Meng Zixian's nose like a cold toad. He reached out to take it off, but the nurse slapped his hand away, saying his blood oxygen level wasn't up to par and that he had to wait until the fluid in his lungs drained before the oxygen could be removed. The nurse put him in a wheelchair and pushed him for an echocardiogram and electrocardiogram. The doctor wanted to rule out the possibility of cardiogenic pulmonary edema.

In the evening, Sylvia came to the hospital and brought him a change of clothes. At that time, Meng Zixian's fever was only 38 degrees, and his mind was still clear. He said thank you to her.

Sylvia laughed and said, "This is the fastest I've ever packed." Your shirts are lined up like soldiers in the closet, all facing left, two inches apart. Honestly, I don't even dare hang mine in there. And your bed has only sheets, no pillows or quilt. The spare blankets in the closet are folded neatly, like tofu.

He had long been accustomed to not covering himself with a blanket. In the barracks, sleeping bags were common, and even on the rare occasions when beds were available, no one covered themselves with them, finding folding blankets too much of a hassle. But Chen Huan preferred thick duck down quilts and never folded them, either piling them at the head or the foot of the bed. Thinking of this, he began coughing again, pulling open his oxygen mask and burying his chin in his arms as he coughed.

Sylvia stared at the light red bloodstain on his sleeve for a while, then moved her gaze to Meng Zixuan's face and said, "You remind me of a case I took over in Philadelphia before. It was a serial killer serving his sentence who was temporarily transferred to our hospital for treatment of his mental illness."

Meng Zixuan frowned slightly.

"Please forgive me. That was too rude," Sylvia said. Meng Zixian and Michael Woodson have many similarities. They both have very handsome faces, with slightly high brow bones, straight noses, and square jaws—typical Caucasian features. But Meng Zixian's eyes are narrow and his lips are thin, which gives him the unique subtlety and delicate beauty of Asians.

Apart from their looks, their growth experiences also overlap - abandonment by their biological parents, forced migration to another country as children, military service experience, excellent academic background, and an almost demanding will to perform physically.

From the perspective of the Big Five personality trait theory, people who perform well in the military tend to have very high conscientiousness, very low emotional neuroticism, and low agreeableness.

The military chaplain who had worked with Sylvia once told her that these men often witnessed horrific scenes but had no time to process the shock or fear. While in Kandahar, a vehicle-mounted weapon accidentally discharged, killing an engineer who was repairing a vehicle. The soldiers nearby carried his body and continued their mission.

"What expressions do you think were on the faces of these children at that time?" the pastor asked her sadly.

"What's that like?" Sylvia asked.

"They have no expression," the chaplain said. "That's the scariest thing, isn't it? God bless you."

It's hard to say whether the military's rigorous discipline fosters these traits, or whether individuals with this innate disposition are selected for military service. Regardless, this combination closely resembles the psychological profiles of the high-IQ criminals she's studied. Low agreeableness makes it difficult for them to empathize with others, contributing to their criminal motivations, while high self-discipline and emotional control make their methods more calm and methodical.

No, that's biased, Sylvia said to herself. Meng Zixian had established good social relationships and even had an enviable career. Woodson was far less fortunate.

This cannot be entirely attributed to his higher cultural literacy or the socioeconomic status of his adoptive parents' family. Unlike Woodson, Meng Zixian has good social functioning and is able to understand other people's emotions, but most of the time he is more accustomed to using violence and coercion to solve problems.

Meng Zixian was a mystery to Sylvia. She didn't know if she could ultimately deliver a satisfactory answer, but there was no doubt that Meng Zixian needed psychological treatment. His obsession with overcoming his injury through sheer willpower had already impacted his daily life, perhaps stemming from past experiences in his life that he had struggled to control but felt powerless to do.

Sylvia recommended a colleague to Meng Zixian. Meng Zixian declined, saying he didn't need a psychiatrist. Sylvia said that when you were admitted to the hospital, the nurse asked you to fill out a depression/anxiety scale. I've read thousands of mental health assessments, so please trust my judgment. Meng Zixian leaned back on his pillow, closed his eyes, and fell silent. Sylvia had no choice but to leave the ward.

The next day, the doctor came to check on me. He had good news and bad news. The good news was that your heart was perfectly healthy, and we'd ruled out a cardiac cause. My diagnosis was the same as yesterday: high-altitude pulmonary edema. The bad news was that your blood test showed some infection, and you'd have to stay with me for a few more days.

In the afternoon, Meng Zixuan developed a high fever. Whether it was the medication or the injury itself, his vision was blurry. He couldn't look at his phone or laptop, and his speech was slurred. He could only put down his work, look out the window when he was awake, and sleep when he was tired.

Half asleep and half awake, he remembered Chen Huan saying sorry to him, and she said that I said that because I was a little jealous because of something in the past.

When people dream, they tend to get stuck on one thing. He gritted his teeth, unable to figure out what "the past" was. He tried hard to think about what he had done or forgotten to do. When the fever got worse, he felt like he was back in the 120-degree Helmand Desert, the heat like a hair dryer in his face.

He felt like he'd just drifted off and on for the entire day and night, but when he reached for his phone, it wouldn't light up. A nurse came to rock him. He reached for the charging cable, and a few minutes later, the screen lit up. It took Meng Zixuan's eyes a long time to focus, realizing ten days had already passed. Countless messages, phone messages, and emails popped up on the screen.

Chen Huan had sent him a message. The photo showed a spare key to her Brooklyn apartment, enclosed in an envelope. She'd said she'd left it at the front desk. Meng Zixuan flicked off the screen and placed the phone back on the bedside table. The screen lit up again, revealing a flash flood warning from the National Weather Service, warning of a hurricane-force wind in New York City.

After taking Meng Zixuan's blood pressure, the nurse told him not to lie down any longer. "Proper activity will help with recovery."

Meng Zixuan took off his oxygen mask. He saw an IV drip on his left hand, so he moved the oximeter held by his right index finger to his left hand and got up from the bed. When his feet touched the ground, he felt that his legs were stronger than he thought and could support his body. He walked very slowly, as if this body was not his own. The back of his left hand, which was holding the IV stand, had turned a lifeless white due to lack of sun exposure, and the blue veins under the skin bulged with the slightest movement. He stared at his hand for a while, came to his senses, and pushed the IV stand to the window.

It was noon, but the gray-blue sky outside looked like night. Rain streaks slanted down the windows, and the outlines of the tall buildings outside slowly dissolved in the heavy downpour.

The nurse asked him to go to the corner to weigh himself, her tone no different from the one in prison. Meng Zixian stood on it and saw that he was fifteen pounds lighter than when he was admitted to the hospital, and the same as when he was released from prison. The nurse wrote in the notebook, "160 pounds, BMI 20.5." Meng Zixian asked when he could be discharged, and the nurse said it would probably be tonight or tomorrow, and she would tell him when the doctor made rounds.

The nurse left, wheeling the blood pressure monitor. Half an hour later, she returned with a small tray containing five or six disposable medicine cups. The doctor came in with her. "You're awake. The previous injections can be taken orally."

Meng Zixian swallowed the colorful pills inside. The doctor said that if he wanted, he could be discharged tonight, but he would need to sign a discharge notice.

"Is anyone coming to pick you up?" the doctor asked.

"No."

The doctor told him to call a taxi when he was discharged from the hospital. The effect of the sedative would take some time to wear off, so he shouldn't drive for the next few days.

"What did you use on me?" Meng Zixuan asked.

"morphine."

The discharge date was set at 8pm, and Meng Zixian had a few hours to deal with work. In the morning, when he arrived in Hancheng, he received a call from Lou Hetai. Lou Hetai briefly told him about Ronghui's situation over the past few days and also mentioned what Chen Huan had asked him to do.

"Oh. Wasn't he laid off?" Meng Zixuan's tone was flat, emotionless. He'd just been bored, checking his phone for a moment. Discussions about Chairman Xuan Tao sexually harassing female employees had already made headlines. Chen Huan was a relatively private person; most of her public photos were from two ribbon-cutting ceremonies. A few blurry little pictures were circulated repeatedly, and the internet was dominated by two opinions: one was that she was so beautiful, yet her husband was cheating on her, and the other was that marrying into a wealthy family also came at a price.

There was silence on the other end of the phone for a moment, and for some reason that silence made Meng Zixuan a little irritated. He leaned back on the sofa and looked out the window. The heavy rain had stopped temporarily, but the water on the corner opposite the hospital was almost flooding the sidewalk.

Lou Hetai finally sighed. "Old Meng, you're going a bit far this time, aren't you? Must personnel adjustments be rushed within the next two weeks? Couldn't you have given me a heads-up beforehand? They say it's better to destroy ten temples than to break up a marriage. Even if Old Li is fine, he and his wife are in a lot of trouble now."

Meng Zixuan's voice was neither cold nor hot. "I've been in the hospital. I don't know the situation."

"We've been together for so many years, you don't need to be so vain. Putting aside the fact that you used the debt pressure to force Old Li to withdraw, how could you even use a coward like Wu Ruifeng?"

Lou Hetai's words were rather harsh. Meng Zixuan sneered and replied, "Wu Ruifeng was invited home by Li Ting and you at a series of drinking parties." The 500,000 yuan in Ronghui's account for Wu Ruifeng's brother and sister-in-law's blockchain investment was not transferred by me.

Now that the window paper was broken, Lou Hetai felt much more at ease. He said, "There are some things I didn't intend to tell you because I was worried that you would vomit blood again because you were weak."

Meng Zixian was so angry that he coughed, and he told Lou and Tai to get out.

Lou Hetai asked about the acquisition and shareholding platform you and Xiao Jun set up. Why didn't you negotiate openly for shares? You went to Chen Huan's house privately. Are you doing business or are you involved in a gang?

Meng Zixuan's blinking frequency slowed down. He didn't know about this.

Lou Hetai called Wu Ruifeng a scoundrel who made his fortune making debt collection calls, saying he was a real scare tactic. He'd first asked Chen Huan for shares at the dinner table, then went to the health and wellness center where Li Ting lived. When that didn't work, he called in several managers, all about 5 feet 4 inches tall, who took turns waiting outside her home in Yunjingli. Terrified, Chen Huan didn't dare go home, so she moved out with Jin Tuo.

Meng Zixuan lowered his eyes, but his forehead was throbbing slightly. After a moment of silence, he asked where Shen Huan was now. Lou Hetai said that he hadn't seen her these days. She had just lost her job and couldn't go anywhere.