Fiona Bennett put down the hemostat; the instrument nurse should have handed her the syringe. Last year, when she was still an intern, she had done similar things. When her classmates entered the operating room as interns, they were already acting as second assistants, but she was a beat behind. She couldn’t blame anyone else. Last autumn, she had administered potassium to a patient with diarrhea and hypokalemia, but accidentally set the drip too fast, nearly causing a fatality. After that, she doubted whether she was really suited to be a doctor. Stop thinking about that—why hasn’t the syringe been handed over yet?

Suddenly, the blue drape under the patient turned black.

In an instant, the blackness spread through Fiona Bennett’s entire world. Her body reacted before her mind, barely keeping her from fainting.

At that moment, the nurse shouted in her ear, “Blood! There’s bleeding!”

Fiona Bennett’s heart pounded wildly, snapping her out of a nightmare-like, brief faint at the sight of blood. In front of her, a large swath of dark red venous blood was flowing from the incision on the patient’s thigh—like a waterfall, like a collapsed dam, like a tidal wave.

It was the incision for harvesting the great saphenous vein—she hadn’t secured it properly!

Stop the bleeding, re-bandage!

Her mind and body were disconnected. She knew what to do—a series of emergency steps flashed through her mind like lightning—but her body moved in slow motion. In reality, she just stood there, dumbfounded, not moving at all.

“What are you doing!” After waiting two seconds, the lead surgeon, Charles Foster, finally lost patience and roared.

The thick glass between her thoughts and her body shattered at the sound. She broke free, her face flushing red with blood. She plunged her hand into the blood, found the vessel, clamped it with the hemostat, removed the loose suture, took the new one from the nurse, tied it securely—standard procedure, no more mistakes.

Charles Foster’s face was hidden behind his mask, his expression unreadable, but the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes were noticeably deeper than usual. He glanced at Fiona Bennett and said to prepare the great saphenous vein.

Fiona Bennett responded, only to realize the great saphenous vein wasn’t soaking in water. Of course—she hadn’t had time to do the water test before the accident. She lowered her head in despair and saw the vein lying in the bloody water on the floor.

Completely contaminated.

A roaring filled Fiona Bennett’s ears. Everyone watched as she squatted down, fumbled several times before picking up the vein, then stood up again. No one spoke.

“I… I’ll wash it, rinse it with saline.”

“It’s useless,” said Charles Foster.

“Think of something, think of something, if we use disinfectant…” At this point, Fiona Bennett had no idea what she was saying. She just wanted to say something, as if that could make up for her mistake.

“It would destroy the endothelial cells. Haven’t you learned these basics?”

Of course she had. It was an accident! Fiona Bennett thought resignedly.

She looked at the long incision left on the patient’s leg from harvesting the vein. Now they’d have to take it from the other leg. When the patient saw wounds on both legs, would he know that only one was supposed to be needed? How would she explain?

“Left leg? I’ll harvest it now…” Fiona Bennett suddenly stopped. This time, she remembered without Charles Foster having to say anything. The patient’s left leg had severe varicose veins; only the right great saphenous vein was usable. Charles Foster had reminded her before surgery not to make a mistake.

There was no great saphenous vein left to use. Fiona Bennett stared blankly at the patient, whose chest was already open, waiting for two bridges to be built with the great saphenous vein. Her mind went blank.

“Prepare to harvest the left radial artery,” Charles Foster said.

Right, there was still the radial artery. Using the radial artery for bypass has better long-term results than the great saphenous vein, but in the short term, it’s more prone to spasm. This patient was sixty-nine years old; at this age, short-term results are more important, so the radial artery is usually not used. But now, there was no other option.

At this point, Fiona Bennett was still holding the thoroughly contaminated great saphenous vein. She unconsciously stepped back, then back again. After such a serious accident, she thought she was probably going to be fired. The only consolation was that, for the patient, things hadn’t yet reached the point of no return.

Charles Foster turned to stare at her. Fiona Bennett felt frozen under his gaze.

“Are you still able to continue?” Charles Foster asked.

“Me, ah, am I still… me?”

“Are you still able to continue?” Charles Foster repeated.

“Oh, okay, um.” Fiona Bennett mumbled meaningless syllables as the nurse reached out to take the great saphenous vein from her hands.

“Gloves!” Charles Foster barked.

Fiona Bennett jolted, quickly changed into clean gloves, and picked up a scalpel. The area had already been swabbed with iodine. She slowly brought the knife closer. The grip was weak; she had to squeeze hard or it would fall. But her hand started to tremble.

“Stop.” Charles Foster, who had been watching her, said, “Take a moment to adjust. Make sure you really can continue. This time, you absolutely cannot make another mistake.”

Fiona Bennett took a deep breath, trying to steady her hand. But it was no use—her hand shook even more violently.

Deep breath, deep breath, deep breath. Suddenly, she broke down. The scalpel fell, and she covered her face with both hands, sobbing uncontrollably.

Charles Foster pushed her away from the operating table.

“Get out!”

As she stumbled out of the operating room, Fiona Bennett had only one thought: I can’t be a doctor anymore.

It was Christmas Day, 2000. In two days, it would be the third anniversary of Susan Wright’s death.

On the morning of December 27, 1997, at 8:03 a.m., Susan Wright died at Mitchell Medical Center after unsuccessful resuscitation. The memorial service was held on the last day of that year, but Fiona Bennett did not attend. She lay in bed with a low fever for two weeks, too weak to walk. She knew clearly that this was a classic case of psychosomatic symptoms. She felt both guilty and relieved for not attending the memorial. She couldn’t imagine facing Susan Wright’s body in the funeral home’s farewell hall—she could only run away. It was precisely this avoidance that led to Susan Wright’s death by poisoning, with no one to help her. But since she had already made her choice, she could only keep running away. Later, she heard that everyone else had attended the memorial, even William Williams, who had been left disabled after jumping from a building during the investigation. The thought that among those bowing their heads in tears before Susan Wright’s lifeless body was the person who had killed her sent chills down Fiona Bennett’s spine. It was better not to go, better not to go, better not to go.

That school year, no one else was investigated—perhaps the school thought losing one person a year was just right. The following year, Matthew Mitchell became the last person to be investigated. His parents made a scene at the school, and in the end, the school gave him a diploma but didn’t assign him a job.

People rarely spoke of Susan Wright again; it became a taboo in the sponsored class. Surely many wondered in their hearts how Susan Wright had really died, and re-examined the incident with the police. But no one would say it out loud. Fiona Bennett still couldn’t fit in with the class, which made her rely even more on Frank Bishop. In a way, Frank Bishop took Susan Wright’s place.

Susan Wright became a shadow over everyone. For those not involved, the shadow would eventually fade with time, but in Fiona Bennett’s heart, it only grew heavier. She couldn’t help but wonder: if, at that time, she hadn’t been scared off, if she had kept investigating, if she had bravely protected Susan Wright, what would have happened? Things would surely have been different—even if she had died instead, she would have accepted it; it would have been better than now. But there are no “ifs” in life. Once you run away, there’s never another chance.

At first, she only dreamed of Susan Wright at night. Later, in her sleepless, dazed moments, Susan Wright’s face would appear, as if she had never left her side. After starting her internship at Henry Mitchell, the hallucinations became more frequent—perhaps because she saw blood so often. Susan Wright had died at Mitchell Medical Center, and now she was working there. Every time she thought of this, Fiona Bennett felt an indescribable pain. Fortunately, the sponsored class’s internship and future work were at the newly built Pudong branch of Henry Mitchell, while Susan Wright had died at the main hospital in Puxi. If not for this, Fiona Bennett probably wouldn’t have been able to work in the hospital at all.

But in the end, she still couldn’t find peace. After the medical accident on Christmas, she returned to her dorm in a daze. Two hours later, the hospital administration notified her of her suspension pending investigation. The patient, due to heart, lung, and kidney issues, stayed in the ICU for a full seven days after surgery. In fact, this had nothing to do with the extended surgery time or using the radial artery instead of the great saphenous vein, but Fiona Bennett felt it was all her fault. She slept day and night in her room, waking only to silently shed tears. Frank Bishop came to keep her company whenever he could, telling her about cases he’d encountered. Later, he stopped talking about cases and just shared interesting stories. But those stories all happened in the hospital, and Fiona Bennett couldn’t bear to hear anything about doctors or patients. Eventually, they just made love, holding each other for a long time afterward.

On the morning of January 17, Dr. Charles Foster called Fiona Bennett to tell her the patient had been discharged and was recovering well. The patient and family hadn’t made an issue of the extra scar on the arm. Fiona Bennett thanked him and said that such a thing must never happen again. That morning, Fiona Bennett went to the administration office of the Pudong branch of Mitchell Medical Center and handed in her resignation. In the afternoon, Frank Bishop took leave to help Fiona Bennett pack up her things in the dorm. Fiona Bennett’s expression was calm—she was steadier than she had been in days.

That day was Little New Year. Frank Bishop took Fiona Bennett to her doorstep. Fiona Bennett hadn’t told her family she was coming home that day, let alone mentioned her resignation. Frederick Bennett and Laura Cooper didn’t even know their daughter had been involved in a major medical accident.