Critically Ill (Part 2)
After a long 12 hours, Shen Zhiyuan's stiff fingers finally moved in the ICU ward. Shen Zhihe, who was concentrating all his attention, immediately called a doctor.
The doctor rushed over, stethoscope in hand, and walked quickly to the bedside. Shen Zhihe stood by, holding his breath, his eyes fixed on Shen Zhiyuan's hand, which had just been moved. His knuckles were slightly white from tightly grasping the edge of his clothes.
"The heart rate is recovering, and the signs of spontaneous breathing are becoming more obvious." The doctor checked the beating curve on the monitor and reached out to touch Shen Zhiyuan's fingertips. "Observe for another half an hour. If he can open his eyes on his own, it means that his nerve reflexes are gradually recovering."
Shen Zhihe's Adam's apple moved, and his voice was hoarse from staying up all night: "Is he...about to wake up?"
The doctor looked up at the red bloodshot under his eyes and nodded: "Better than expected, family members, go and rest for a while, I will call you if there is any situation."
Shen Zhihe did not move, but just turned his gaze back to Shen Zhiyuan's face, his fingertips hovering a few centimeters above the back of the other's hand, but in the end he did not dare to touch it.
After about three hours, Shen Zhiyuan finally symbolically closed his eyes. The sunlight from the window cast a streak of pale gold across the backs of his folded hands. His eyelashes trembled, as if startled by the light, but his eyelids only parted a tiny fraction, so quickly it almost looked like an illusion.
After a moment, he finally opened his eyes completely, a hint of fatigue still lingering on his eyelashes. His knuckles shone lightly in the sunlight.
Seeing this, Shen Zhihe's sleepy eyes quickly widened. The corners of his eyes, which had been slightly drowsy just now, suddenly tensed up, and even his breathing stuttered. He stumbled forward two steps, then suddenly stopped. As if afraid he had seen it wrong, he looked back, his fingertips trembling with anxiety. As he turned around, he knocked over the stool next to him with a clang.
"Doctor! Doctor, come quickly!" he shouted, his voice shrouded in lingering panic, the last syllables a bit ethereal. The echo in the corridor stretched out long. He ignored the strange looks from those around him and stared fixedly at the half-open door, his knuckles clenched until they turned white, and even the veins in his forehead throbbed faintly.
"Doctor! Quick! This way!" Shen Zhihe's voice, tinged with sleep, suddenly rose in urgency, the last syllable trembling slightly. One hand pressed against the doorframe, his fingertips white, while the other frantically waved toward the other end of the corridor, his gaze fixed on the situation inside the room. His eyes, previously sleepy, were now filled with anxiety, and even his breathing became irregular.
When the figure in the white coat hurried over, he almost half-helped, half-pushed the person inside, stumbling and almost bumping into the door frame: "Look, he just...just did that..." Before he could finish his words, his Adam's apple rolled, as if swallowing back the rest of his worry. He just kept urging, "Please take a look, please."
The doctor quickly came to the bedside, first observing Shen Zhiyuan's pupil reaction, then carefully listening to his heartbeat with a stethoscope, and then began to ask Shen Zhihe some questions about Shen Zhiyuan's recent physical condition. Shen Zhihe answered one by one, each word filled with uncontrollable eagerness. His hands unconsciously clenched, his knuckles white, waiting for the doctor to tell him good news.
The smell of disinfectant in the ward seemed to fade. The doctor removed his stethoscope. He turned, his gaze fixed on Shen Zhihe, who was clutching a thermos beside the bed. A smile slowly spread across his eyes as he spoke, "Congratulations! The old man's symptoms are better than expected, and all indicators are improving."
He paused, then emphasized his tone, "But there's one thing you have to remember—for the next month, no matter what you say or do, you absolutely mustn't make the old man angry. He's just recovered, and if he gets emotional, he'll easily relapse. For the time being, don't bring up any of the family troubles with him. Understand?"
Shen Zhihe's shoulders, tense for days, suddenly relaxed, and the bloodshot under his eyes seemed to fade. He shook the doctor's hand and thanked him repeatedly, his voice still raspy, the fatigue from days of guarding the patient's bedside.
Turning around, his gaze fell on Shen Zhiyuan, lying on the hospital bed. The old man's breathing had calmed down considerably, and while his face remained pale, it had lost its earlier gloom. Shen Zhihe walked quietly to the bedside and tucked in the quilt for his father. The warmth of the sheets touched his fingertips, and the weight that had been weighing on his heart finally settled.
He gazed at his father's sleeping face, his Adam's apple rolling slightly. The estrangement and alienation between father and son over the years seemed blurred in this life-or-death situation. All that remained was the joy of regaining his lost son and the anticipation of a peaceful month of recuperation.
For the past month, Shen Zhihe has devoted almost all of his attention to Shen Zhiyuan. From the temperature of the morning medicine to the gentle movements when turning over at night, he personally takes care of every detail. The red bloodshot under his eyes is exchanged for Shen Zhiyuan's gradually improving complexion.
Xu Huanxi came frequently, always bringing homemade supplements, sitting by the bed and chattering about family matters, her words full of concern; Xu Zhiyi was like a lively little bird, always bringing freshly picked flowers, chirping about the latest news outside, which made Shen Zhiyuan smile occasionally.
The smell of disinfectant in the ward was gradually diluted by the aroma of medicine, flowers and human touch. Even the sunlight outside the window seemed to be particularly attached to this place, always shining through the glass in the afternoon and casting warm spots of light on the sheets.
That day, Shen Zhihe was tucking the corner of Shen Zhiyuan's quilt, his movements so gentle as if he wasn't afraid to disturb anything. Just as his fingertips touched the edge of the sheets, he paused, as if a question had been lingering on his tongue for a long time before he finally asked, "Dad, what happened on your way to the company that day?"
Chen Zhiyuan's brows, once relaxed, furrowed slightly, his gaze fixed on the bouquet of daisies Xu Zhiyi had brought him on the bedside table. His voice was hoarse, a tinge of fresh-awake raspiness. "That day... your Aunt Xu sent me a WeChat message, saying something was going on at the company and asked me to go over and inspect it." He paused, as if recalling the scene. "I was crossing the street, walking peacefully, when suddenly a black private car rushed towards me at an alarming speed, barreling straight towards me."
"What happened next?" Shen Zhihe asked, his fingers unconsciously clenching the corner of his clothes.
"Later, your Aunt Xu came over and said that the driver was driving under the influence and lost control, causing the collision. She told me not to worry and called 120 for me." Shen Zhiyuan's tone was a little lighter. "The police also checked and said that the evidence is conclusive and that the punishment has been imposed according to regulations." As he spoke, he raised his hand and rubbed his eyebrows, as if the memory brought some dull pain.
The ward was silent for a few seconds, with only the ticking of the wall clock. Shen Zhihe lowered his eyes, and no one could see the emotions surging in his eyes.
Shen Zhihe suddenly raised his head, his voice filled with suppressed doubts: "Dad, there's something... I don't know if I should say it." He took a deep breath, his eyes fixed on Shen Zhiyuan, "When Aunt Xu rushed over that day, the first thing she thought of was not calling 120 to save you, but instead she spoke up for the perpetrator. Don't you think this is too strange?"
The color on Shen Zhiyuan's face instantly faded. He leaned against the headboard, thinking silently for a moment, his fingertips tapping lightly on the quilt. Suddenly, he looked up at Shen Zhihe, his eyes sharper: "You mean..." He paused, as if chewing on the weight of this speculation, "She knew the driver? That 'accident', maybe it was intentional?"
The air seemed to freeze at that moment. Shen Zhihe said nothing, only nodded gravely. The suspicion in his eyes was like a stone dropped into a lake, sending out icy ripples. Shen Zhiyuan's brows furrowed even tighter, and a shadow cast a shadow over his previously calm expression. He stared out the window, his lips pressed into a tight line—it turned out that the seemingly clear-cut "drunk driving out of control" might actually conceal such a deep conspiracy.
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