DSMIS CH21

Chapter 21: Hero, Is This Medicine Yours?

While changing out of his work clothes, Shen Xing sent a message to Jiang Lin:

“Hero, have you had dinner yet? Want me to bring something back for you?”

He waited a while, but received no reply. Usually, Jiang Lin responded quickly during the day, so Shen Xing figured he had probably fallen asleep.

Leaving the hospital, Shen Xing skipped the police cafeteria across the street and instead found a well-reviewed porridge shop online. He ordered some congee, two refreshing side dishes, and two servings of red bean buns. Walking past a supermarket, he paused for a second before ducking inside to grab something, then drove home.

Knock, knock, knock.

He knocked on Jiang Lin’s door, but nobody answered.

He knocked a little harder and pressed his ear against the wood. He heard barking—or rather, a soft, timid little whine that sounded unmistakably like his own Qianjin.

Inside the bedroom, the curtains were half-drawn. Jiang Lin lay curled on his side, his forehead slick with sweat. One hand gathered the blanket close to his chest while the other hung over the edge of the bed. Right beside his hand lay the big white fluffball, looking as though Jiang Lin had been comforting the nervous Samoyed right before drifting off.

At the sound of the knocking, Heibao padded into the bedroom from the balcony. Qianjin’s ears gave a twitch, and he instinctively nuzzled closer to the man on the bed.

Heibao let out two barks, and the big white puff followed suit with two trembling whimpers. Jiang Lin furrowed his brows slightly and woke up, his mind foggy and disoriented, unable to tell what time it was until the knocking sounded once more.

Just as Shen Xing pulled out his phone to call, the door finally opened.

Jiang Lin stood there in his pajamas, his hair rumpled and sticking up in places. His eyes were hazy with sleep, two distinct red creases pressed into his cheek. Staring at the man on his doorstep, he still seemed half-dazed, his voice gravelly:

“Dr. Shen?”

Even though the two of them had already slept under the same roof twice, this was the first time Shen Xing had ever seen Jiang Lin looking so thoroughly bewildered.

“I figured you might be asleep. I bought some dinner and brought a portion for you.”

Not wanting to disturb Jiang Lin’s rest, Shen Xing prepared to hand over the bags and take Qianjin home. But Jiang Lin took a step back, clearing the doorway, seeming to wake up a little:

“Come on in. Let’s eat together.”

“Alright.”

Stepping inside, Shen Xing noticed several new pairs of disposable slippers by the entrance. He slipped into a pair:

“How are you feeling? Still running a fever?”

Jiang Lin stood still without answering, almost as if waiting for something. Sure enough, a moment later, Shen Xing reached out and pressed the back of his hand against Jiang Lin’s forehead.

“You’ve broken a sweat—the fever should be down. Come, sit. I bought congee and side dishes. Eat first, and there’s a treat waiting for you afterward. Guaranteed to cure you right up.”

Jiang Lin blinked and glanced toward the other bag Shen Xing was carrying. Shen Xing quickly hid it under his coat:

“No peeking now. You only get it after you finish your meal.”

“Oh.”

As soon as Shen Xing opened the takeout bag, a giant white puff came bounding straight toward him. Shen Xing ruffled his dog’s head:

“Were you a good boy at your uncle’s house?”

Qianjin buried his head right between Shen Xing’s knees, whining softly as if pouring out a mountain of grievances. Shen Xing quickly hauled the dog’s head back up, casting a slightly sheepish look at Jiang Lin.

Jiang Lin lowered his head to hide the smile in his eyes:

“He’s a little intimidated by Heibao. He settled down after having some canned food.”

“This glutton just wanted to swindle you out of treats.”

Shen Xing glanced toward Heibao resting in the distance, recalling what Jiang Lin had mentioned that morning about Heibao undergoing a splenectomy. Jiang Lin must have taken meticulous care of him afterward; his coat was smooth and glossy, with no visible trace of the surgical scar on his belly.

“There’s ginger chicken congee and mushroom chicken congee. Which one do you want?”

Sitting at the table, Jiang Lin stifled a yawn:

“You pick. Either is fine.”

Shen Xing slid the ginger chicken congee over to him:

“Have the ginger one, then. It’ll help you sweat it out and recover faster.”

Jiang Lin nodded, cradled the bowl, and started drinking, his eyes darting toward the bag tucked beneath Shen Xing’s coat every now and then. Shen Xing caught those subtle glances and felt amused—this man seemed to turn unexpectedly childlike when he was sick.

“Finished.”

Jiang Lin showed the empty bowl to Shen Xing, his intention crystal clear: Whatever good treat you promised, bring it out.

Shen Xing laughed and brought out what was hidden under his jacket. Jiang Lin’s eyes locked onto it immediately:

“Canned food?”

“Canned yellow peaches. Eat yellow peaches, and all your illnesses will peach out—flee away! Whenever I got sick as a kid, my mom always bought this for me.”

Shen Xing gripped the lid and twisted, but it wouldn’t budge. He applied more force, but it still didn’t give:

“Huh, why is this on so tight?”

Jiang Lin reached out:

“Give it here.”

“No need. Do you have a knife? Prying the seal loose will do the trick.”

Before Jiang Lin could reply, Shen Xing spotted a small paring knife on the coffee table. He walked over, slipped the tip of the blade under the lid, and pried until the jar gave a soft hiss as the vacuum released. Just as he set the knife back down, his eyes fell upon a small prescription bottle beside it. It was a medication he knew all too well—Gabapentin?

Jiang Lin’s gaze tightened the moment he noticed what Shen Xing was looking at. The pills in his weekly dispenser had run out, and after taking a dose straight from the bottle when he came home that afternoon, he had forgotten to put it back in the drawer.

Shen Xing suddenly recalled that the first time they met, Jiang Lin had also appeared to take some sort of pill. He snapped his head up:

“Hero, is this medicine yours?”

Jiang Lin paused. As a doctor who dealt with patients day in and day out, Shen Xing recognized the look on Jiang Lin’s face immediately—it was the unmistakable look of someone searching for an excuse:

“Don’t you dare tell me this is for Heibao.”

The excuse Jiang Lin had just formulated in his mind was cut down before he could speak a word:

“Migraines. Prescribed a while back. It flared up today, so I took one. Feeling much better after sleeping.”

Migraines? Gabapentin was indicated for neuropathic pain; while it could indeed be used adjunctively for migraines, Shen Xing’s clinical intuition told him something was off, even if he couldn’t put his finger on what.

Jiang Lin took the jar of peaches from his hands and buried his head in eating, showering the peaches with praise. Shen Xing watched him… why did this man seem so guilty?

Having already warmed up to Jiang Lin, Qianjin trotted over from Shen Xing’s side and rested both front paws on Jiang Lin’s lap. He rubbed his fluffy ears against the back of Jiang Lin’s hand, his tongue hanging out toward the jar, drooling with anticipation. Shen Xing found his shameless begging mortifying:

“Qianjin, get over here.”

The Sammy refused. His dark, shiny eyes were locked onto the yellow peaches as he continued nuzzling Jiang Lin’s hand shamelessly.

Jiang Lin looked down, exchanging a glance with the dog. Using a disposable chopstick, he picked up a slice and fed it to him. But the second the peach touched Qianjin’s mouth, Heibao padded out from the inner room. The cowardly Sammy immediately gulped down the fruit, tucked his tail between his legs, and scrambled back behind Shen Xing. Shen Xing laughed at his lack of courage and swatted his rear:

“You big coward, where’s your dignity? You wouldn’t listen when I called you just a second ago.”

“Hero, I’m taking him back. If your head aches, get to sleep early. It’s best not to take medication unless you really have to.”

Jiang Lin walked him to the doorway and pressed several small cans of dog food into his hands:

“I saw that Qianjin really liked these. Take them back for him.”

“This chubby boy is already sixty-five jin [~72 lbs].”

“One or two meals won’t hurt.”

Shen Xing was speechless… How many people trying to diet had fallen victim to that exact sentence? Right now, he was actually relieved that it was Qianjin who needed to lose weight and not himself; otherwise, living next door to Jiang Lin, any diet would be doomed.

Shen Xing brought the white puffball home, reacquainted him with the large dog bed set up for him, and then took a shower.

Since the previous night, he had only managed two hours of sleep. Yet now, lying in bed in his pajamas, sleep eluded him. He pulled out his laptop, propped himself against the headboard, and opened Liu Xiaohu’s medical file.

The records dated back seven months. The initial receiving facility was the Armed Police General Hospital. Upon admission, the patient presented with multiple fractures, internal organ contusions, and most critically, severe craniocerebral trauma. What ultimately precipitated the persistent vegetative state was traumatic brain injury (TBI). He had spent four months at the Armed Police General Hospital before being transferred to the county hospital in the fifth month, where he had remained for roughly three months.

Shen Xing spent the night reviewing extensive medical literature. Patients in vegetative states secondary to traumatic brain injury had higher rates of emergence compared to those caused by hypoxia, stroke, or intracranial hemorrhage. Awakening rates typically reached 35%–45% within three months and 50%–60% within six months. However, twelve months—one full year—served as a definitive clinical watershed. Once that window closed, the probability of recovery plummeted.

It had already been seven months.

Checking the time, he dialed an older fellow alumnus from medical school who was currently practicing in the neurosurgery department at Capital Hospital. After exchanging pleasantries, the voice on the other end came through:

“Send over his records and let me take a look.”

Shen Xing promptly transmitted the files:

“Senior, this patient has been comatose for seven months. He underwent HBO (hyperbaric oxygen therapy) during the first three months and is currently on amantadine to promote awakening. At the three-month mark, there was a transient return of consciousness, but only that once. Subsequent therapies haven’t yielded noticeable progress. If we wanted to pursue a slightly more aggressive therapeutic regimen, are there any other options?”

Shen Xing was remarkably direct. Liu Xiaohu had been injured in the line of duty, meaning the Armed Police General Hospital had undoubtedly exhausted every standard intervention available. With seven months gone, the window for emergence was narrowing by the day. If they were to fight for a sliver of hope, conventional methods would no longer suffice. As the premier authority in neurosurgery nationwide, Capital Hospital likely held access to clinical trials or unapproved experimental interventions.

Xu Huai grasped his implication:

“Is this person related to you?”

“No, he’s a friend.” Shen Xing paused, then added, “A very important one.”

“Alright. I’ll review his file and run an assessment. I’ll get back to you within three days at the latest.”

“Understood. Thank you so much, Senior. I’ll treat you to dinner when I’m back.”

Early the next morning, Shen Xing conducted his ward rounds. Cao Shulan’s condition had stabilized, and she was cleared for transfer out of the ICU.

Just as he stepped out of the intensive care unit, a rapid flurry of footsteps echoed from the end of the corridor. Looking up, he saw Director Yu leading the way, followed by a contingent of police officers who all appeared to hold substantial rank, along with several plainclothes personnel who looked like government officials.

At a single glance, his eyes caught Jiang Lin, who stood out strikingly among the crowd. Today, Jiang Lin wore his full service uniform, standing tall and straight. His composed, authoritative demeanor was a world away from the childlike figure who had rushed through his congee the night before just to get his treat. His shoulder marks gleamed beneath the corridor lights—and on closer inspection, his rank bore only a single star less than the bureau chief leading the formation.

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Author’s Note:

Officer Jiang lies without batting an eye [starry eyes]