Mrs. Song woke up after two weeks. The good news was she was out of danger, with intracranial pressure stable; the bad news was her nervous system was damaged, with her right leg losing motor function.

Hemiplegia – she would never stand again.

This was the diagnosis from the Third Hospital’s most elite medical team. When one of their own was hurt, they had done everything possible.

When Song Cong learned of this, he cried all night. From darkness to daylight, he cried until numb in the empty house. He told himself this was a good outcome, at least his mother’s mind was clear, she would just have mobility issues in the future, but he still couldn’t help crying. This was the woman emergency room doctors had joked had wind under her feet because she walked so much faster than others. More importantly, she had only just passed the first half of her life’s journey.

One push, one collision – nerves were that fragile and sensitive.

When he could no longer squeeze out a single tear, Song Cong made a decision.

His father returned home at dawn. Usually, his mother handled everything, from daily meals to major purchases, from New Year’s visiting gifts to how much money to give at weddings. Mother was capable and decisive, handling things with lightning efficiency, which had made “Bone Department Old Song” famously easy-going throughout the hospital. During these two weeks, Father had visibly lost weight. Without his backbone, this middle-aged man who only knew how to worry about professional matters was almost crushed by the sudden change.

“How’s mom?”

Song Cong knew his father went to the hospital last night to explain the situation to his mother. Chinese parents shared a common flaw – they were ashamed to show weakness or express grief in front of their children, so he hadn’t gone along. He hoped his mother could let herself go – cursing or crying, venting the anger and unwillingness hidden in her heart without restraint.

Anyone would be like that – he didn’t want her to be the exception who endured in silence.

“Accepting it is still…” Mr. Song shook his head. “Sleeping with sedatives. Go over later.”

“Dad.” Song Cong looked at his father. “I want to transfer to the Experimental Middle School.”

The decision had required almost no thought, as it was the only thing he could do while still underage. No need to explain why – the Experimental was right across from the hospital, just steps from home.

Whether for physical care or emotional support, the mother needed her closest family by her side.

Mr. Song’s eyes immediately reddened. “Son, you don’t have to do this.”

“It doesn’t matter to me.” Song Cong’s gaze was firm. “I don’t want to do something I’ll regret.”

“But your mom… your mom will feel worse.”

Song Cong blinked his dry eyes twice. “I can still test into whatever school I need to. Dad, trust me.”

Father finally agreed and told him two things – if it went to court, it might make the news again, so be prepared; the hospital decided to transfer your mom to logistics, and she can go anytime, Aunt Lin helped a lot with that.

This was an adult conversation – in this way, Song’s father acknowledged his son becoming an adult.

Jing Qichi and Huan’er learned the news afterward. As friends, anything beyond patting his shoulder and saying “I support you” seemed excessive. The Three Musketeers became a duo, Song Cong leaving without a sound. Only when the next monthly exam had a new top student did people notice to their surprise that the old one was gone.

Talk of the top student’s transfer was quickly forgotten, just as spring passes to summer, the world always has new things.

During college entrance exams when the school was used as a test site, Huan’er took advantage of the break to visit Mrs. Song with her mother. On the way, Mrs. Chen mentioned the case had entered the public prosecution phase, court next month, intentional injury charge was certain, just a matter of how long the sentence would be.

Huan’er asked, “They didn’t come apologize?”

“Oh, they came.” Mrs. Chen’s tone was contemptuous. “Your Aunt Hao hadn’t even returned to work, don’t know where they heard about it, ran to your Uncle Song’s office crying about having elderly parents and young children to care for – anyone who didn’t know would think something terrible had been done to them.”

“Then what?”

“Your Uncle Song refused to settle and had security throw them out. My senior brother might seem like a pushover usually, but he’s firm on principles in big matters. Still crying and making a scene – why do they think an apology and some money let them live peacefully? He ruined someone’s latter half of life in a moment of impulse. Apology is basic sincerity, doesn’t mean escaping legal punishment.” Mrs. Chen got angrier as she spoke. “Everyone has elderly and young to care for, if they knew this would happen why do it in the first place?”

“Yes, you can’t be too kind.”

“No, Huan’er.” Mrs. Chen immediately rejected this. “Be kind, but don’t always tolerate and give in. You must have a bottom line in your heart that cannot be violated.”

The mother-daughter pair reached Song’s building entrance, Mrs. Chen making a “shh” gesture with her finger to her lips.

“I know.” Huan’er felt her mother was treating her like a child, inwardly dissatisfied. “I’m not stupid.”

Mrs. Song seemed in good spirits, apparently accepting this accident calmly, lightly describing her life’s inconveniences and guilt toward her son. Song Cong was busy washing fruit and pouring tea, his appearance unchanged – but how could growing up overnight show on one’s face?

“This scared my senior brother,” Mrs. Chen said smilingly. “The last time I saw his forehead so dark was during school. Our major had few male students, when practicing cupping we’d grab anyone above or below our year to practice on, at least eight or ten times a night. Senior brother was older, had to set an example as the big brother – he said for ten years he couldn’t forget the scene of us all holding him down to the cup.”

Mrs. Song laughed, slapping the sofa. “Old Song had such a story?”

“Sister-in-law, don’t sell me out. If only we had cameras then, I would’ve framed the photo and hung it in your living room.”

Huan’er had long discovered her mother had a superpower – no matter how difficult the conversation or how gloomy the mood, she could easily dissolve it with a few words. She truly practiced “it’s not a big deal” thoroughly and completely.

While the adults chatted happily, Song Cong gestured Huan’er to his room. She’d thought living in the same compound meant being classmates or not didn’t matter, but they hadn’t seen each other since his transfer. She knew Song Cong was busy, especially in the beginning – his mother’s daily needs plus rehabilitation activities, needing someone by her side for every move. She’d discussed with Jing Qichi whether to visit, but they finally decided to wait – if help was needed Song Cong would surely send an SOS, since he hadn’t, it meant his schedule was just too full.

“You’re not doing evening self-study now?”

Using his good student privileges, Song Cong had stopped evening classes, going only between school and home each day – no one else could truly understand these hardships.

“Not yet.” The boy stood by the window with his hands in his pockets. “We’ll see.”

Huan’er picked up the Experimental Middle School uniform on the bed, fiddled with it then put it back, asking him, “Figured out medical school?”

Still a year – a whole year.

“I was honest with them.” Song Cong jerked his chin toward the door. “They’re split into two camps.”

“Then Uncle Song must be in the supporting camp.”

Song Cong looked at her and shook his head. “My dad disagrees, mom supports it.”

Ironically, the one who had been bloodily hurt by that white coat was the one who supported it without hesitation.

Huan’er was somewhat surprised. “What did Auntie say?”

“Just, someone has to do it, even if the outcome is unknown.” Song Cong said, unclear whether this was his mother’s teaching or his understanding.

“Schrödinger’s medical school.” Huan’er concluded.

“Exactly right.” Song Cong smiled.

Uncertainty is a maze in the heart. We cannot fly up and see the path from above – the only way is to walk and see. Although this maze is full of tricks and unpredictable changes, it will never tell you that after taking this step, walls will rise behind you leaving no way back.

Returning to school again, the senior classrooms downstairs were still in exam layout, desk drawers facing forward, rows arranged uniformly. After that exam called the Watershed of fate, this place seemed to enter frozen time, only the jumping numbers on the wall’s electronic clock reminded me that endings are new beginnings.

Somehow, this day was especially quiet. After class there was no sudden rise in noise, self-study had much less whispering, and even the water dispenser at the back of the classroom seemed to cooperate by no longer bubbling and gurgling to assert its presence. Du Man had cut her long hair, and several more practice books appeared on her desk, using up a pen refill every day. The blue-black marks on her hands grew heavier, like birthmarks growing from within the flesh, never to be erased.

At dinner time Liao Xinyan came to find Huan’er, secretly saying the advanced class math teacher would hold a small group at his home during summer break, focusing on test points and difficult topics, asking if she and Jing Qichi wanted to join.

The school didn’t allow teachers to hold private classes – this information clearly couldn’t leak out.

“Just two weeks’ break this year, concentrated review isn’t bad.” Liao Xinyan wrote rather than spoke the teacher’s name, afraid of others discovering. “He’s very good, especially accurate with predicting test questions.”

Huan’er was somewhat tempted, but immediately dismissed the idea upon learning the cost – several thousand for just over ten days.

“Too expensive!” She couldn’t help blurting out.

Liao Xinyan laughed at her. “Country bumpkin, this is the going rate now.”

She knew this wasn’t mockery. That Liao Xinyan would share this confidential information showed she was on her list of close, trusted friends. So she honestly replied, “I definitely won’t go, but I’ll ask Jing Qichi tonight.”

When Jing Qichi heard about it, his first words were, “Are you going?”

“You think my family has a gold mine?”

“Then I won’t go either.” He poked her back. “Don’t flatter yourself. My dad’s coming back, I want to spend a few days with him during the break.”

In the blink of an eye, two months had passed since Mr. Jing’s transfer. That place was reportedly right next to mountains with harsh conditions, needed a train transfer just to get home – he hadn’t been back since leaving.

“Oh, you still can’t ride a bike?”

This topic made Huan’er angry. Since Song Cong left she’d become the “full-time driver,” carrying a sturdy youth over 1.8 meters in her back seat to and from school. When she learned Jing Qichi’s weight she realized it was like carrying almost three bags of rice – what concept was three bags of rice? Enough to eat for nearly a year without breaks between meals. This, this wasn’t this like moving house with food supplies every day?

Angry but helpless – not carrying him would make her a heartless friend who looked down on others.

Jing Qichi secretly laughed at her small struggling shoulders. “You seemed pretty strong when hitting me.”

“Jing Qichi, ever heard ‘thirty years east of the river, thirty years west’?”

“Don’t threaten people. I won’t be moved by poverty, won’t submit to force.”

“All you have left is being poor and submitting.”

“Speak properly, why curse?”

The evening breeze lifted their school uniforms, sweat drops falling and rising again. The poplar-lined road, traffic lights, billboards – they all knew that on such a summer night, someone had moved into someone else’s heart.