Chapter Six: MZ’s Fire
Huizhou, 1948
MZ crashed into my world like a rogue wave—my cousin, seventeen, all sharp edges and wild grins, the summer I was thirteen. “I’m joining the army, MJ,” he said, kicking dirt in Huizhou’s lanes, his eyes blazing with something I didn’t have yet. Pa snorted, wiping sweat from his brow, “Fool boy’ll get himself killed,” but I saw a storm brewing, fierce and alive. Born ’32, four years before me, MZ was a whip of a kid—wiry, restless, always running ahead. “China’s bleeding,” he told me, slinging a sack over his shoulder, “and I can’t sit here picking rice.” He marched north with the People’s Liberation Army, a speck among the ranks, his boots kicking up dust I’d never forget.
Letters came sparse, scribbled fast—’50, Korea, his words jagged: “Cold cuts like knives, MJ, but we’re holding the line.” Shrapnel nicked him, frostbite chewed his toes, but he wrote it off: “Tougher than the wind.” I’d read them under the lantern, Pa grumbling, “He’s crazy,” Ma hushing him with a look. By ’53, he was back—scarred, lean, that grin still kicking, standing in our doorway like a ghost who’d won a bet. “Told you I’d make it,” he said, clapping my shoulder, his grip hard. Pa shook his head, but I felt it—a spark jumping from him to me, daring me to burn as bright. “You’re the quiet one,” he teased, “but I’ll drag you out yet.” I laughed, the fire catching.
Years later, I’d see that fire flare—Korea’s ice couldn’t douse it, nor could the years ahead. MZ was my mirror, wild where I was steady, a thread in the Lee weave I’d carry long after his boots stopped kicking dust.
Chapter Seven: Lanterns in the Storm
Wuhu, 1966
The Cultural Revolution hit like a typhoon, red banners bleeding into Wuhu’s streets. I was thirty-one, hands sure now, when the power died at 127. “Lanterns, MJ!” a nurse yelled, shoving one into my grip, its flame dancing wild. A farmer sprawled on the table, gut torn by an ulcer, blood pooling black in the flicker. “Go,” I muttered, scalpel glinting as I sliced, the room a cave of shadows and groans. Outside, Red Guards pounded the doors, their chants a dull roar—books burning, fists flying. MZ was there, back from Korea, a wall of scars and grit. “He’s saving lives, you bastards!” he bellowed, his voice a crack through the chaos, boots planted firm.
They dragged him off—fists swinging, boots thudding—but I kept cutting, sweat stinging my eyes, the lantern’s heat scorching my knuckles. “Scalpel don’t care,” I told Guihua later, my wife trembling in our shack, her dark hair falling loose. “Neither do I,” she said, her hand clamping mine, steady as the steel I held. The farmer lived, chest rising slow, and I slumped against the wall, lantern flickering out. MZ was gone—labor camp, they said—and guilt gnawed me raw. “He’ll be back,” Gui whispered, her voice a lifeline. I nodded, but the storm raged on, Wuhu a madhouse, my blade the only calm I could carve.
Nights blurred—lanterns, blood, shouts—each cut a fight against the madness. “Dr. MJ,” they’d whisper, patients clinging to me, and I’d push on, Guihua’s echo driving me through the dark.
Chapter Eight: The Village Blade
Anhui Countryside, 1972
Rain lashed the night I turned thirty-seven, a boy’s scream slicing through our Wuhu shack. “Cart crushed him,” his pa gasped, dragging me out, rain soaking my coat, scalpel bag slapping my hip. The village was an hour’s slog—mud sucking my boots, wind howling—till I stumbled into a huddle of thatch and despair. “Leg’s gone,” I said, kneeling by a rickety table, the kid’s cries sharp as the storm outside. “Hold him,” I told his ma, her hands shaking as she pinned him, candlelight jumping wild across his pale face. I cut—bone splintered, blood hot and fast—scalpel flashing in the dim.
Hours bled into dawn, my fingers numb, the stump wrapped tight in strips of cloth. He breathed, a shallow rasp, and his ma pressed rice into my hands, rough and damp. “You’re Dr. MJ,” she whispered, eyes wet with something like awe. “Just a man,” I said, voice hoarse, trudging back through the muck. Guihua’s lantern glowed in our doorway, her arms pulling me in, warm against the chill. “You’re soaked,” she said, peeling off my coat. “Had to be,” I muttered, sinking into her quiet strength. Word spread fast—villages, factories, homes—I became the knife in the dark, stitching Anhui’s wounds one muddy step at a time.
Weeks later, a farmer limped up, leg I’d saved months back, and grinned. “Still walking, Doc.” I nodded, the fire in my chest flaring—each life a thread, weaving me into something bigger than the scalpel.
Chapter Nine: MZ’s Shadow
Wuhu, 1969
MZ stumbled back at thirty-seven, a ghost from the camps—hair gray, ribs sharp under his shirt, but that grin still kicking like a mule. “They couldn’t break me, MJ,” he rasped, hugging me tight, his bones pressing through his jacket. He’d shielded me in ’66, paid with three years of labor—shovels, cold, beatings—and guilt hit me like a fist. “You’re a damn fool,” I said, voice cracking. “For you,” he laughed, coughing hard, his eyes glinting with that old fire. I pulled him in, Guihua pouring tea, her steady hands a balm to us both.
That week, a soldier’s wife banged on 127’s door—her man dying, lung shot through, blood bubbling pink. “Save him, Dr. MJ,” she begged, clutching my arm. I cut in the dark, hands sure now, MZ’s shadow at my back—not there, but felt. The soldier lived, chest heaving, and she gripped me, sobbing, “You’re family now.” I nodded, mute, thinking, “Because of him.” MZ slumped in our shack later, sipping tea slow. “You’re the hero,” he teased, voice rough. “Shut up,” I shot back, but his grin stayed, a torch lighting my way. He’d fade, I knew—too worn—but that fire held me up.
Days after, he arm-wrestled me, weak but stubborn, laughing when I let him win. “Still got it,” he wheezed. I smiled, the weight of him heavy, a thread I’d never cut loose.
Chapter Ten: Guihua’s Anchor
Wuhu, 1962
Guihua slipped into my life at twenty-five, a junior doctor with quick hands and a smile that cut through the ward’s gloom. “You’re bleeding, MJ,” she said, patching my arm after a brutal shift, her touch warm against my skin. I was twenty-seven, worn thin by famine, bones sharp under my coat, but she stuck close, her laugh soft in the chaos. “You’re a mess,” she teased, wrapping gauze tight, and I felt something shift—light breaking through the dark. “Marry me,” I blurted one night, her standing by the stove, steam curling around her. “Quietly,” she said, eyes dancing—no fanfare, just us, vows whispered over tea.
Chen came ’62, a squalling spark in Guihua’s arms, her cries piercing our shack. “She’s loud,” I said, rocking her, scalpel idle for once. “Like you,” Guihua shot back, grinning tired. We made it work—her at 127, me cutting through nights, her strength my shore. “We’ll hold,” she vowed, her hand on mine after a long day, Chen asleep between us. “Always,” I said, her eyes my home, steady as the river outside. She’d stitch me up—cuts, doubts, fears—her quiet fire matching mine, a thread tying us tight.
Years in, she’d hum Ma’s old songs to Chen, her voice soft, and I’d watch, the scalpel’s weight lifting. “You’re my best cut,” I told her once, half-asleep. She laughed, “Damn right,” and I knew we’d weather anything.
