Chapter 13 — Encounter with a Dog

The moment Annette met Stuart's gaze, she was struck by a sudden realization—if he eventually discovered it was her who caught the misdiagnosis, would he grow suspicious?

Damn her professional instincts—they always made her forget to play dumb.

She froze for a second, but quickly composed herself. If Stuart ever did question it, she would simply insist it was a guess. After all, she was right there with him the whole time. Surely a man raised under the iron fist of rational, patriotic thought wouldn't believe in anything as fanciful as premonitions.

"You're awake? Are you feeling uncomfortable anywhere?"

Annette walked briskly to his side, donning a look of genuine worry and urgency.

Stuart's ears were still tinged red. He blinked a few times, shifting his gaze to the side as he rasped, "No. I'm okay."

Annette seated herself beside the bed with natural ease. "Good. You scared the life out of me. Do you want something to eat? I can get you something."

Stuart did harbor some doubts. In the haze of unconsciousness, he'd caught fragments of Annette arguing with the doctor, insisting that the injury wasn't to his spine, but internal bleeding.

Yet now she was casually offering him food. Didn't she know post-op patients weren't supposed to eat right away?

Annette, sharp as ever, caught the flicker of suspicion in his eyes and immediately deduced he'd overheard something during his semi-conscious state.

"I'll go ask the doctor what you're allowed to eat," she offered quickly. "Oh, and... do you need the restroom?"

Stuart's ears burned brighter. He shook his head stiffly. "No."

Annette went off to the medical office and sincerely inquired about the post-op care plan—what could be eaten, what was forbidden.

Dr. Louis Raymond, an old acquaintance who had treated Stuart before, was kind and earnest. "That boy's lucky to be alive," he said. "Another hour and even the best surgeon couldn't have saved him. He needs to nourish himself properly. I've got some spare meat coupons here—take these, get him something good."

He slid two creased ration stamps across the desk.

Annette was startled. Meat was still rationed? And this kindly old doctor had just handed over his own?

She hastily refused. "No, really, I can manage. I brought my own."

Dr. Raymond frowned. "You can buy meat without tickets, sure, but it's expensive. Stuart's had a hard road—you should really save where you can."

Annette didn't argue further, but as she stepped out, a question gnawed at her. According to the original Annette's memory, Stuart earned thirty-seven and a half yuan a month. He had a steady grain and oil allocation, plus cloth rations every year. That was a decent income in this era. With meals covered at work and clothes issued by the unit, why did everyone act like the man was destitute?

A man like him, frugal and self-disciplined, should've had some savings. Why did people keep saying he had it hard, as if he was on the verge of starving?

Setting the thought aside, Annette resolved to make him some nourishing soup.

When she returned to the ward, she spotted Charlotte inside—already by Stuart's bedside, weeping and whispering an apology. How the hell had she heard about the misdiagnosis and transfer?

Annette had no patience for Charlotte's saintly theatrics. Without entering, she turned and left again, deciding to take a walk and see if she could procure some meat. Perhaps she could borrow the hospital kitchen to make some broth.

Unfortunately, the local butcher stalls had already closed. A few vegetable sellers still loitered by flickering oil lamps.

"Looking for something, miss?" an older woman called warmly.

"I was hoping to buy a chicken... or maybe a fish," Annette replied.

The woman pointed down the street. "Too late for that. If you want meat, head toward the riverside. There's a little black market back there. No ration tickets needed, but it'll cost you."

Private sales were technically permitted now, but decades of ideological restrictions had left people hesitant. Especially in this sleepy northwest town, where even hawking radishes was a cautious, low-profile affair.

Annette followed the old woman's directions, weaving past a row of cottages until she reached the informal marketplace. Makeshift stalls dotted the sidewalk, selling everything from dumplings to needle thread. A few stands peddled meat—at steep prices. Chicken? A whole yuan.

She clutched her coin purse and grimaced. Her money wouldn't last long here.

Just as she turned away empty-handed, a sudden flutter of wings caught her eye—a flock of ducks, honking and flapping across the river, disappeared into a patch of reeds.

"Whose ducks are those?" she asked a nearby vendor.

He chuckled. "Wild ducks. No one owns 'em. They can fly—no one can catch one."

Annette's eyes sparkled. Not raised? Then fair game.

Back in the hospital, she'd figure out how to make a proper snare. Maybe go back at dawn with a tool in hand.

Not far off, she noticed a bicycle repair stall with a bundle of valve rubbers dangling from the doorframe. Perfect elasticity for a slingshot. She handed over a dime and bought one.

As she walked back, the sun dipped beneath the horizon, the skies painted in pink and gold. It lent this weary little city a brief, romantic dignity.

Suddenly lost in thoughts of home, her parents... and the bizarre possibility that the "original" Annette might be wandering her world now.

She was so preoccupied, she didn't notice someone blocking her path.

She moved aside.

So did he.

Annette frowned and looked up—only to be greeted by a face she wished she'd never see again.

Gregory Chen.

Her so-called "boyfriend" from before the marriage. Long hair, sharp features, and the kind of slick, roguish grin that immediately made her skin crawl.

"Annette," Gregory said softly. "You've been gone three months... Are you okay? I wanted to stop your wedding, but my dad locked me in. If I could've... I would've come to take you away."

Annette had to admire the original girl's taste in trash. This was the man she'd pined for?

Her expression frosted over. "I'm married now. Let's not speak again. If we meet, we're strangers."

Gregory took a step closer, panic flashing in his eyes. "Annette, don't be like this. Are you still mad I didn't elope with you? Let's leave tonight. We'll catch the freight train—start over!"

He grabbed her wrist.

Before she could even shake him off, a sharp voice sliced through the dusk.

"Annette, what are you doing?!"

Charlotte.