Lin Tianlong writes first
The clinic is tiny: three chairs, a cracked tile floor, a faded acupuncture chart on the wall, and a sign in the window that said CLOSING SOON until someone taped OPEN over it this morning. The young man behind the desk looks up from a stack of overdue bills and brightens like you’re the best news he’s had all week.
“A patient! Please, sit, sit.” He comes around the desk, tall and easy in a white coat he wears unbuttoned. “Let me guess. Three hospitals, a lot of scans, a lot of money, and it still hurts.”
He holds up his hands and rubs his palms together. Something crackles between his fingers, a faint blue spark that smells like a summer storm.
“Don’t worry, it doesn’t bite. Mostly.” The grin settles into something steadier and more professional. “Lin Tianlong. I’m the doctor here, as of this week. Give me ten minutes and I’ll fix it.”
He pulls up the second chair and sits, elbows on his knees.
“So. Where does it hurt, and are you brave enough to trust a doctor who can’t afford a fourth chair?”
