After being separated from my family, I became a darling of the military region thanks to my medical

When Jackson received the call from his editor, he was at home heating up leftover pizza from yesterday in the microwave.

Get to the office within fifteen minutes.

The editor-in-chief's voice was so urgent it was almost incoherent. Before Jackson could even ask why, the call was already disconnected.

Eighteen minutes later, Jackson pushed open the glass door of the New York Times science editorial office.

Editor-in-Chief Adams slammed a fax onto his desk.

"Mayo Clinic, main auditorium for a thousand people, plus closed-circuit broadcast." Adams' tie was askew, and the top button of his shirt was undone, clearly indicating he had just been woken from bed. "Do you know when the last time Mayo opened its auditorium to a thousand people?"

Jackson picked up the fax and glanced at it.

"That international heart transplant summit?"

“Yes. Three Nobel laureates came that time.” Adams pulled out a chair and sat down, spreading his hands on the table. “Now Mayo is prescribing the same prescription to a doctor at a Chinese military hospital. My informant says the registration is overflowing; the registration office’s long-distance lines are completely full.”

Jackson hadn't even taken a bite of his pizza or consumed any caffeine, so his mind was a beat slow.

What is this doctor's background?

Adams pulled a stack of clippings from his drawer, all collected from major European newspapers over the past two months: the front page of The Times, the medical column in the Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, and viewership data for BBC documentaries.

Jackson turned three pages and stopped.

"Twenty-three critically ill children, zero deaths after surgery?"

"Sir Williams of the Royal Society of Medicine personally wrote her Nobel Prize nomination." Adams tapped the table. "Jackson, I want this article in the papers tomorrow. A forward-looking report, an in-depth investigation. Make every phone call you can today."

"direction?"

Adams thought for a moment. "Objective. We won't endorse her, nor will we attack her. But the angle needs to be sharp, to pique the reader's interest."

Jackson took the notebook and turned to a new page.

Give me twenty-four hours.

Jackson spent the entire day making fourteen long-distance calls, both overseas and domestic.

The feedback from Europe was remarkably consistent.

The deputy director of the Royal Brompton Hospital in the UK used the word "revolutionary" directly on the phone. The director of the Pediatric Cardiology Center at the University of Freiburg Medical School in Germany went even further, saying that they had included the Chinese standards in the required reading list of their residency training materials.

But once they crossed the Atlantic, their attitude completely changed.

Jackson dialed three sources within Mayo's inner circle.

The first person was from the administrative department, and he spoke in a very low voice.

"Don't write my name. This report is just a political show. Harrison and Stephen are practically fighting at the plenary session, and now the entire Mayo Clinic is divided into two factions. Just wait and see."

The second call was answered by a mid-level attending physician, who hesitated for a long time before answering.

"I've looked at the European data. If those numbers are true..." He paused for a long time. "Then they are indeed true. But I can't publicly speak for her, you know."

Jackson pressed further, "Did you buy a ticket?"

The other person was silent for two seconds. "Third row from the front."

The third call came from a young doctor, a chief resident, who was quite straightforward.

"I bought a front-row ticket to see her make a fool of herself. A Chinese doctor who has never even set foot in America, expecting Mayo to roll out the red carpet for her? Are you kidding me? I bet she won't even be able to speak fluent English when she gets on stage."

Jackson put down the phone and wrote the three paragraphs side by side in his notebook.

One said it was a political show; another said it might be true; and the third was waiting to see the joke.

This is the North American medical community's entire understanding of Ye Zhen: division, prejudice, curiosity, and a bit of fear that they dare not admit.

Jackson opened the typewriter and began typing the title.

He tested three versions. The milder ones lacked impact, while the more radical ones wouldn't be approved by the editor. Finally, he settled on a question.

What made this young female doctor from a Chinese military hospital qualified to speak at the Mayo Clinic?

In the main text, Jackson devoted a large section to presenting clinical data from Europe. This included the preoperative diagnosis, postoperative survival rate, and follow-up indicators of twenty-three children. These figures were indeed impressive; anyone with medical training could recognize their high value.

But Jackson couldn't avoid those unavoidable facts either—

"As of press time, this clinical protocol, known in the European medical community as the 'Chinese Standard,' has not yet passed any certification process by the U.S. Food and Drug Administration. The standard has not undergone clinical validation in U.S. medical institutions. All existing data comes from the General Hospital of the Chinese Beicheng Military Region and collaborating European hospitals."

"In other words, the North American medical community is facing a test that has not been tested in its own laboratories."

"It may be a genius's answer, or it may just be a statistical stroke of luck."

Jackson typed the last period and handed the manuscript to Adams.

Adams read it, changed only two words, and signed it off.

"Tomorrow's front page, bottom half, will feature that group photo reprinted by The Times."

Before the newspapers even reached the reading rooms of major hospitals across the United States, the producers of CNN's evening medical special program had already sensed the potential for increased viewership.

That afternoon, the producer assembled the guest lineup with just two phone calls.

Supporter: Andrew Mitchell, a British cardiac surgeon, who personally attended the International Medical Summit in Beicheng and observed Ye Zhen's live surgery.

Opposing view: Raymond Cohen, a 72-year-old retired professor from the Cleveland Clinic, has been immersed in the field of cardiac surgery in North America for 40 years and is known in the field as "Old Cohen".

At 8 p.m., the studio lights came on.

Host Barra got straight to the point.

"Mr. Mitchell, you witnessed this Chinese doctor's surgical procedure firsthand. What is your assessment of her?"

Andrew Mitchell sat ramrod straight; the British reserve seemed powerful in this setting.

“I stood in the operating room in the north of the city for six hours. Six surgeries, the youngest patient was only eight months old.” Mitchell paused. “In my thirty years of practice, I’ve never seen that kind of precision. It’s not talent—talent can’t explain a zero mortality rate. She broke down every variable into quantifiable standards.”

"That Chinese standard is at least ten years ahead of our current system. This is not an exaggeration."

Barbara turned to the other side. "Professor Cohen, what's your opinion?"

Old Cohen leaned back in his chair, a confident air about him that only an old man who had seen too many storms could possess.

"Barbara, I've been performing heart surgeries in Cleveland for forty years. I've seen too many 'miracles' come and go."

He held up one finger.

"First, her surgical data was not subject to blind review by an FDA-approved third party. Second, all of her cases were concentrated in a military hospital, and we don't even know what the hospital's sterilization standards are."

Old Cohen shrugged. "What can a country that can't even afford a laminar flow operating room teach us? I have my doubts."

Mitchell interrupted the host before he could speak.

"Professor Cohen, have you ever been to China?"

"There's no need."

Have you seen the facilities report for the Beicheng Military Region General Hospital?

"I've looked at enough data."

"Have you seen that Chinese standard?"

There was a two-second silence in the studio.

Old Cohen's hand rested on the armrest, and he didn't move.

Barbara followed up, "Professor Cohen? Have you read this clinical protocol in its entirety?"

Cohen cleared his throat. "My team is evaluating the relevant materials."

Mitchell didn't laugh, but his voice held a sharp edge. "So, your conclusion was reached without even reading the original text?"

"I have forty years of clinical experience to rely on in my judgment—"

“Experience cannot replace data,” Mitchell interrupted him. “Twenty-three children who were sentenced to death are now being discharged from the hospital alive. This is not something that experience can explain.”

Old Cohen's face tightened. He shifted his posture and steered the conversation back on track.

"Then let's wait for her to come to Mayo and prove herself in front of everyone."

"What if she can't prove it?" Barbara pressed on.

Old Cohen leaned back in his chair, his confident expression returning. "That means the Europeans were fooled."

Forty minutes after the program aired, CNN's phone lines were overwhelmed with calls.