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

Temporary lounge on the first floor of the Mayo Clinic administration building.

The television on the wall was broadcasting a press conference from Washington. FDA Commissioner Walker, pale-faced, read the prepared statement with his head bowed. The phrase "measures to be rescinded immediately," accompanied by the flashing lights of the cameras, echoed in the quiet lounge.

The door was suddenly pushed open.

Harrison stepped into the room, his chest heaving rapidly, so much so that he didn't even straighten the hem of his white coat.

"Dr. Ye." He strode up to Ye Zhen, his throat dry, his voice rising several decibels, "The ban has been lifted! The FDA has lifted all restrictions on you!"

Gu Zheng leaned against the window. He glanced at Walker on the TV screen, then looked away and pushed the glass on the table toward Ye Zhen.

The water is warm.

Suddenly, a series of hurried and rapid footsteps came from outside the door.

Stephen walked down the corridor, followed by several Mayo Clinic executives in suits.

He stopped in front of the lounge, straightened his tie, took a deep breath, and went inside.

He was holding a blue hard-shell folder in his hand.

"Dr. Ye." Stephen placed the folder on the coffee table in front of Ye Zhen, pushed it over with both hands, and opened the first page.

The paper was covered with black ink, and twelve names were densely written on it.

"This is a joint request from twelve senior cardiac surgeons at the Mayo Clinic."

Stephen met Ye Zhen's gaze. His eyes were bloodshot, yet they held an unprecedented sincerity.

"As long as you agree to be the surgeon, Mayo Clinic will unconditionally grant you access to the highest-standard catheterization lab in the United States."

He pointed to the signature on the paper, his voice lowering.

"Everyone here, including myself, as well as Professor Cohen and Director Whitman from Boston—everyone in the United States qualified to perform pediatric cardiac surgery—is at your beck and call, ready to assist you."

The academic authority who once attempted to dismantle the "Chinese standard" with terminal illness cases at a conference, and the North American medical luminary who once scoffed at the Eastern medical system, now voluntarily set aside all his pride, all for the sake of securing a spot as an assistant to this young Chinese female doctor in the upcoming surgery.

Ye Zhen lowered her gaze and glanced at the names on the paper. They were all prominent figures in the North American medical community; any one of them could grace the cover of the journal *Hand Science*.

She casually closed the folder.

"Prepare the equipment." Ye Zhen stood up. "Redo the 3D ultrasound immediately."

Twenty minutes later. Catheterization Room One.

Three-year-old Lucy lay on the cold examination bed. She was much smaller than other children her age, and the pressurized oxygen mask almost completely covered her face. Her chest rose and fell laboredly with each breath, and the blood oxygen saturation monitor hovered around 75.

Ye Zhen stood in front of the ultrasound machine, and without letting the technician do it, she held the probe herself and placed it on Lucy's chest wall.

The ultrasound machine emits a slight hum. Grayish-white image slices are developed in real time on the screen.

The ultrasound technician was assisting with data recording, his forehead covered in sweat.

Ye Zhen stared at the scale lines on the screen, her brows furrowing slightly.

"Measure the distance from the upper edge of the defect to the aortic valve."

The technician moved the cursor and drew a measurement line.

0.9 millimeters.

In the observation area, Harrison and Whitman, the director from Boston, who had followed in, both changed their expressions.

"No, that's not right," Whitman blurted out. "The ultrasound report from Boston 48 hours ago clearly stated that distance was 1.1 millimeters!"

Now it's 0.2 points less.

In interventional cardiac surgery, 0.2 millimeters is the line between life and death. This means that once the occluder is deployed, the edge of the occluder disc could very well become lodged directly on the aortic valve. Compression of the valve leaflets can lead to fatal valvular regurgitation, and the child might not even have a chance to survive the operation.

Ye Zhen did not stop.

"Measure the narrowest point of the left ventricular outflow tract."

The cursor moved again.

The technician's voice trembled as she announced the number: "Four point six millimeters."

It's become 0.2 millimeters narrower.

The thickening of the ventricular walls caused by hypoxia was accelerating. The condition was deteriorating rapidly, and at a rate that exceeded everyone's expectations. The 48-hour delay, coupled with the interstate high-altitude transfer, had pushed the already precarious chances of survival to their limit.

This is a heart that could stop beating at any moment.

Ye Zhen moved the probe away, tore off a medical tissue, and cleaned up the coupling gel on Lucy's chest in a crisp and efficient manner.

She turned and walked to the record table, pulling out a new surgical plan from the medical record folder.

Harrison hurried over.

"A 4.6 mm outflow tract, if a 7 mm occluder is inserted, will not only get stuck, but may also completely block the outflow tract." Harrison's forehead veins throbbed. "Dr. Ye, the conditions for intervention are no longer met."

Ye Zhen didn't reply. She picked up her pen and quickly wrote a line on the last line of the proposal.

Alternative Option B: If the left ventricular pressure exceeds the threshold after balloon closure during the operation, immediately convert to open thoracotomy for repair.

After she finished writing, she slapped the form into Harrison's hand.

"Notify the surgical team to prepare the cardiopulmonary bypass machine. Scrubbers should be on standby next to the catheterization lab."

Harrison took the form, read the handwriting, and quickly ran down the corridor to make the arrangements.

The signature area outside the corridor.

Emily sat on the bench, holding a cup of coffee that had long since gone cold, the paper cup crumpled in her hand.

Gu Zheng stood guard at the other end of the corridor. He stood ramrod straight, like an insurmountable barrier, keeping all the media reporters who tried to approach and eavesdrop outside the cordon.

The automatic door opened. Ye Zhen walked over, holding the surgical consent form.

Emily jumped up, spilling coffee on her coat without her noticing.

"Dr. Ye."

Ye Zhen placed the consent form on the small table next to her and handed her a black pen.

She didn't offer any words of comfort, nor did she beat around the bush.

"The ultrasound results are in."

"Her condition is worse than in Boston. The upper margin is only 0.9 millimeters away, and the outflow tract is only 4.6 millimeters away. Her heart is already under its limit and could trigger acute heart failure at any time."

Emily's hand holding the pen began to tremble violently. The pen tip pressed against the paper, but she couldn't write a single letter.

I'll only tell you two outcomes.

Ye Zhen's voice was steady, and this extreme rationality and calmness became a powerful stimulant in this desperate situation.

"The worst-case scenario is that the intervention fails, the parachute cannot be released, and she has to undergo open-chest surgery on the spot. She will have to stay in the intensive care unit for a month, and she will be left with a 20-centimeter penetrating scar on her chest, but her life can be saved."

"The best possible outcome."

Ye Zhen looked at Emily.

"Your daughter's lips will turn pink in two hours."

pink.

These two words, so straightforward and devoid of any medical jargon, struck Emily's nerves, which were already taut to the point of breaking.

The image she first saw in the BBC documentary suddenly flashed into her mind: the German boy who had recovered from a terminal illness, running freely on the lawn, his lips a healthy, rosy pink.

That was the whole reason she fought against the hospital's compliance department, the FDA, and even publicly denounced capital in the newspapers, all the way from Boston to here.

Emily lowered her head and forcefully signed her name at the end of the consent form.

The pen tip sliced ​​through the thin paper.

After signing the last letter, the pen slipped from her exhausted hand and fell to the ground.

Ye Zhen put away the surgical consent form, checked the signature, and turned to walk towards the sterilization channel of the catheterization lab.

The heavy metal sensor doors slid open silently to both sides. Cool air from the sterile laminar flow air conditioner blew out from the depths of the passage, ruffling the corners of clothing.

Lucy has been wheeled to the operating table in catheterization lab number one.

Nurses hurried along the corridor, pushing sterile trolleys. The metal instruments clanged coldly against the trays.

Ye Zhen walked into the changing room, took off her white coat, changed into a light blue scrub suit, and put on a sterile cap.

Harrison changed his clothes and walked over, standing in front of the sink next to him, and began to wash his arms step by step.

Gu Zheng stood outside the changing room, their eyes meeting through the huge glass wall. Gu Zheng raised his hand and lightly tapped his knuckles on the glass twice.

Ye Zhen responded with a gesture. She raised her hand, pulled out a sterile towel from the wall to dry her arm, and threw the soiled tissue into the waste bin.

He turned and walked towards the door of the catheterization lab.

The doors slid open to both sides, and intense shadowless lights poured out.

Behind the door, a delegation of the nation's top cardiac surgeons, along with their assistants, all dressed in full uniform, stood in rows on either side of the operating table. Everyone stood quietly, awaiting the instructions of the Eastern doctor.