Chapter 24 has passed.
The sound of a baby crying came from the operating room—the cesarean section was successful. A nurse ran out to announce that they could prepare for the next surgery. Several militiamen carried a wounded man with a gunshot wound to the abdomen to the operating room.
The hectic activity has temporarily come to an end.
Ian took off his blood-stained gloves and walked to the sink. He scrubbed his hands vigorously with soap while looking at Song Zhiyi behind him in the mirror. She was sorting through used medical waste, her movements unhurried and her back straight, making it impossible to tell that she had such a scar on her body.
"Song," Ian said, his voice a little hoarse, "that wound...how did you get it?"
Song Zhiyi tied up the waste bag and placed it in the designated area before turning around. Her face was expressionless, and she even smiled slightly: "It's really nothing. A few years ago, in another mission area, I encountered a bit of an accident."
She spoke vaguely, clearly not wanting to elaborate.
But Ian wouldn't let her off the hook: "Shrapnel wound? Judging from the scar pattern, it was probably caused by an explosive. The treatment conditions weren't good back then, were they? Did they not even have anesthesia?"
Song Zhiyi was silent for a few seconds. She walked to the window and looked at the dark night sky outside. There were flickering lights in the distance, and she couldn't tell if it was from artillery fire or someone burning something to keep warm.
"Yes." She finally admitted, "We were at a makeshift medical station, and we ran out of anesthetics. There were too many injured people."
She made it sound so simple, so cruelly simple.
Ian's hand slipped on the soap. He steadied himself and continued, "How badly are you injured? Are any internal organs damaged?"
“Spleen ruptured, right kidney contused, extensive tear in the muscles beside the spine.” Song Zhiyi recited these medical terms in a calm tone, as if reading an ordinary report. “An emergency operation was performed, but the suturing conditions were limited. Later, after returning to China, a repair operation was performed.”
“You…” Ian didn’t know what to say. He had been practicing medicine for twenty years and had seen all kinds of wounded patients, but a young woman with such injuries, who could calmly help out in a field hospital and even take the initiative to participate in dangerous work—this was beyond his comprehension.
"Why did you come to a place like this?" he couldn't help but ask. "You could have stayed in the safe rear and done clerical work. With your abilities and qualifications, you could have easily done that."
Song Zhiyi turned around and looked at the wounded soldiers lying on cots in the medical tent. A boy who had lost his left leg was staring blankly at the ceiling; a mother was holding her baby in her arms with vacant eyes; an old man was coughing incessantly, each cough sounding as if he was coughing up his lungs.
“Because people are needed here,” she said, her voice soft but firm. “And… my parents were in a place like this back then.”
She didn't say anything more, but Ian understood.
The Italian nurse, Anna, with red eyes, came over and handed Song Zhiyi a cup of hot water: "Song, you should rest. You've worked fourteen hours today."
Song Zhiyi took the water glass, thanked her, but didn't drink it. She looked towards the operating room: "How is the person who was shot in the abdomen?"
"She's still in surgery," Anna said, "but she's lost too much blood, and the blood bank is running low."
Song Zhiyi put down her water glass and rolled up her sleeves: "I have type O blood, a universal donor. Take mine."
“Song!” Ian and Anna exclaimed at the same time.
“You just finished a high-intensity job, and your body is already very tired,” Ian disagreed. “Besides, you have old injuries that need to be properly cared for.”
"I'm in good health." Song Zhiyi had already started walking towards the blood collection area. "Saving lives is the priority."
Her figure appeared slender in the dim light, her white shirt slightly loose, but her steps were firm.
As Ian watched her retreating figure, he suddenly recalled the first time he met Song Zhiyi—two years ago, when she had just arrived in this mission area, also wearing a white shirt and carrying an old briefcase, standing in the ruins assisting in translating evacuation instructions. Even then, he felt there was something different about this Chinese female diplomat.
Now he understands.
That hideous scar was not a mark of shame, but proof that she had crossed the line between life and death, yet still chose to return to the flames of war.
“Let her go,” Ian said to Anna, who still wanted to stop her. “No one can change her mind once she’s made up her mind.”
The lights in the blood collection area were brighter. Song Zhiyi sat in a chair as a nurse disinfected her arm. She didn't even flinch as the needle pierced her vein; she simply watched calmly as her blood slowly flowed into the blood bag.
Outside the window, the night was deep, and the sound of gunfire grew closer.
Inside the medical tent, the groans of the wounded rose and fell.
The woman with the hideous scar on her lower back was sitting there quietly, donating her blood to save a complete stranger.
It's as if all of that—that wound, that pain, those moments of life and death—was really just "something from a few years ago."
What's past is past.
She still has things to do now.
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