Chapter Eleven: The Factory Pulse
Wuhu, 1975
Reform crept into Wuhu, steel banging loud by ’75. I was over forty, in a factory—worker’s hand mashed bloody in a press, gears still grinding. “Save it, Dr. MJ,” he pleaded, teeth gritted, the noise a roar around us. I cut, sweat dripping into my eyes, stitching flesh to bone, the air thick with oil and heat. “Hold still,” I barked, my hands steady, scalpel flashing quick. He flexed it after, weak but whole, muttering, “You’re a god.” I shook my head, “Just fast,” wiping blood on my coat, the pulse of the place driving me.
127 got new toys—X-rays humming, lights steady—but I roamed still, fields to mills, scalpel my beat. “Dr. MJ’s here,” they’d shout, voices cutting through the din, trust a drumbeat I couldn’t shake. Guihua patched me up after, her hands cool on my neck. “You’re everywhere,” she teased, peeling off my stained shirt. “Gotta be,” I grinned, sinking into her, the factory’s echo fading. A kid ran up once—arm I’d fixed years back—waving it proud. “Still works, Doc!” I laughed, the fire in my chest pulsing strong, each life a hammer strike forging me.
Back home, Guihua’d cook rice, Chen chattering, and I’d breathe—factory grit traded for her quiet shore, my hands still but alive.
Chapter Twelve: The Teacher’s Edge
Wuhu, 1980
At forty-five, I turned teacher—127’s newbies trembling under my glare, their hands soft where mine were calloused. “Feel it,” I’d say, guiding them over a dummy’s chest, my hair silver but grip iron as ever. “Here—cut,” I’d bark, watching them fumble, scalpel slipping in sweaty palms. “You’ve saved thousands, MJ,” a nurse said once, her eyes wide. “They kept me going,” I shot back, voice rough, the ward’s hum my old song. I wrote too—poems scratched late, “Moon hums, blade sings”—ink my new edge, spilling what the steel couldn’t.
Guihua read them, smirking, “You’re softer now.” “Still sharp,” I said, proving it when a kid’s lung collapsed—my hands diving in, steady as stone, teaching while I cut. “Like that,” I told them, blood slick on my fingers, the girl breathing again. They called me Master MJ, a title I shrugged off, but it stuck, their shaky cuts smoothing under my watch. “You’re a legend,” one said, young and dumb. “Just old,” I grunted, but the fire burned—teaching, cutting, a sunset that wouldn’t fade.
Nights, I’d sit with Guihua, Chen at school now, her voice in my head: “Fix people, Ba.” I did—through them, my edge passing on, sharp as ever.
Chapter Thirteen: MZ’s Last Blaze
Wuhu, 1985
MZ went at fifty-three, heart quitting under Korea’s scars and camp years. I stood by his grave, wind biting my face, his grin haunting the quiet—wild, worn, but never dim. “Building on bones,” he’d said in ’58, Great Leap’s famine choking us, his voice cracking as he pushed workers on. Army at sixteen, cadre in his twenties, defiance always—he burned fast, too fast, leaving a wife and son staring at the dirt with me. “He pushed me,” I told Guihua, tears cold on my cheeks, her hand tight in mine. “Always will,” she said, voice soft but sure.
Flashback—’69, him fresh from the camps, wrestling me weak but laughing. “Still got it,” he’d wheezed, coughing, his fire flickering. Now it was out, and I felt the hole, a wound no scalpel could touch. “You’re the quiet one,” he’d teased once, Korea scars glinting, “but I’ll drag you out.” He had—through every cut, every fight—and I carried him still, his blaze a torch in my chest. At 127, I cut a soldier’s gut that week, hands steady, whispering, “For you, fool,” his shadow my fuel.
Guihua held me after, the kids asleep, and I wrote: “Fire’s gone, but it burns.” MZ’s thread stayed, woven deep.
Chapter Fourteen: The Family Thread
Wuhu, 1970
Chen was six, perched on a stool, watching me stitch her doll’s arm with kitchen thread. “You fix people, Ba?” she asked, eyes bright, dark like Guihua’s. “Try to,” I said, her giggle a balm on my tired bones. I was thirty-five, Xin born ’58, Willy ’60—three sparks lighting our shack. Guihua juggled them, me at 127 dawn to dusk, her hands steady where mine shook from long shifts. “Your best cuts,” she’d say, rocking Xin, his cries sharp in the night. I’d nod, scalpel idle, their laughter stitching me whole after blood-soaked days.
Chen, two, toddled over once, tugging my coat. “Ba fix,” she lisped, holding a broken toy. I patched it, her squeal my pay, Guihua’s smile soft in the lamplight. “They’re why,” I told her, Willy chattering about school, Xin asleep. “Damn right,” she said, her hum filling the quiet—Ma’s old songs, now theirs. I’d come home reeking of antiseptic, and they’d swarm me, small hands pulling me back. “You stink,” Chen’d laugh, and I’d scoop her up, the fire in my chest warming, family my shore against the storm.
Years piled on, their voices my anchor—each cut at 127 for them, my thread growing strong.
Chapter Fifteen: The River’s Thaw
Wuhu, 1978
Deng’s reforms hit at forty-three—Wuhu buzzed alive, markets sprouting, 127 gleaming with new toys. I cut a boy’s heart that year, machines humming steady—no more lanterns, just clean steel and light. “Hold,” I muttered, scalpel diving, the beep of monitors my rhythm. He lived, chest rising slow, his pa gripping me: “Miracle, Dr. MJ.” “Old knife, new dance,” I grinned, wiping blood, the ward’s hum a fresh pulse. China woke, the river thawing, and I rode it—hands sharp, eyes sharp, the fire in me matching the city’s roar.
Back home, Guihua cooked extra—reform brought meat, rare and rich. “Fancy now,” she teased, Xin wolfing it down, Chen chattering, Willy quiet but watching. “Still me,” I said, digging in, the shack warmer, kids growing fast. At 127, I taught the new gear—X-rays, scopes—my voice firm: “Learn it, or lose ’em.” A girl’s arm snapped in a mill; I fixed it clean, her ma weeping thanks. “Dr. MJ’s here,” they’d say, trust a river flowing wide, and I swam it, the thaw my new edge.
Nights, I’d walk the Yangtze, its churn steady, Wuhu’s lights brighter—my shine reflected back, strong and clear.
Chapter Sixteen: The Poet’s Steel
Wuhu, 1990
At fifty-five, I leaned into words—journals, poems, the scalpel’s song spilling out. “Blood sings, steel answers,” I scratched late, ink smudging under my grip, the ward quiet beyond my shack. Students at 127 called me Master MJ, their hands steadier under my watch—young, soft, but hungry. “Cut here,” I’d say, guiding them, my hair silver, voice rough but sure. I operated less, taught more, a girl’s lung my last big dance—hands diving in, steady, their eyes wide as she breathed again. “Like that,” I said, blood slick, the lesson sticking.
Guihua read my scribbles, smirking over tea. “Soft now, poet?” she teased, her hair graying too. “Still cuts,” I shot back, grinning, proving it when a kid’s gut twisted—scalpel fast, life held. “You’re a legend,” a newbie said, dumb and earnest. “Just old,” I grunted, but the fire burned, ink and steel my twin edges. Chen, now twenty-six, peeked at my poems. “Ba’s deep,” she laughed, and I shrugged, her pride warming me. Wuhu rose—towers, lights—and I wrote its pulse, my hands still but alive.
Xin, thirty, rolled his eyes—“Old man stuff”—but I caught him reading once, quiet, and smiled.
Chapter Seventeen: The Final Slice
Wuhu, 1998
At sixty-three, I hung my coat—last cut a girl’s lung, quick and clean, her breath fogging the mask. “Done?” MZ asked in my head, his growl faint. “Enough,” I said aloud, folding the white cloth, 127’s hum softening around me. The ward threw a bash—nurses, docs, faces I’d saved clapping loud, their voices a roar. “Dr. MJ, legend,” one slurred, beer high. I shrugged, “Just did it,” but their hands gripped mine—soldiers walking, kids running—my edge carved in them.
I walked the Yangtze after, river steady, Wuhu’s lights sharp against the night. “Forty years,” I muttered, scalpel quiet in its case, its weight still mine. Guihua waited, gray and warm, her smile soft. “Retired?” she asked, teasing. “Never,” I grinned, but sat, the fire in my chest easing to a glow. Chen hugged me, Willy too, Xin nodding—family my last cut, clean and deep. “You’re free,” Guihua said, hand in mine. “Always was,” I lied, the river’s pulse my echo, forty years stitched tight.
Next day, a kid I’d fixed—arm, ’85—ran up, waving it proud. “Still works, Doc!” I laughed, the edge eternal.
Chapter Eighteen: The Next Thread
Wuhu, 2000
Mingqin’s Tian hit five, tugging my sleeve with Yaogui’s wild eyes. “Fix my toy, Ye?” he begged, plastic truck dangling. I stitched it with kitchen thread, his squeal my pay, sixty-five and grinning. “He’s us,” I told Guihua, her hair gray, hands slower but warm. Lan, twenty-five, doctor now, came home—stethoscope swinging, her laugh Xin’s echo. “Learned from you, Ye,” she said, pride cutting me deep. Willy, settled overseas—mechanic, not me, but steady—his nod my win.
Family grew—grandkids, noise, my scalpel’s echo in their hands. “You’re old,” Chen teased, climbing me. “Still sharp,” I shot back, wrestling her, the fire in my chest flaring bright. Guihua watched, humming old songs, the shack alive with them—my cuts living on, threads weaving wide. “They’ll shine,” she said, her eyes my shore. “They do,” I nodded.
A patient’s ma found me—boy from ’78, heart fixed. “He’s a dad now,” she said, tearing up. I smiled, the thread endless.
Chapter Nineteen: The House Stands
Wuhu, 2025
At ninety, I stood shaky but tall, July sun gilding the Yangtze, my kids around me, grandkids loud. They handed me The House of Lee, two volumes thick, forty years bound tight. “Dr. MJ, surgeon,” Mingqin read, voice cracking, her hands steady like Guihua’s once were. I held it, pages heavy, hands trembling, the river’s churn my old pulse. “We endure,” I said, firm, their faces my shine.
Flashback—’23, eighty-eight, the gift first came, Wuhu’s towers rising, my scalpel quiet. Now, Lan, twenty-seven, doctor too, gripped my arm. “Your edge, Ye,” she said, eyes fierce. I nodded. “Shine,” I whispered, river rolling eternal, the house unbowed. A soldier I’d saved—’65, leg—limped up, old now. “Still walking, Doc.” I laughed, the fire warm, my cuts a legacy standing tall.
The sun dipped, Wuhu alive, and I sat, macbook in lap—ninety years, one blade, a thread unbroken.
