They decided to take Chris Bolton to see a retired former provincial team doctor for his foot, since the doctor lived in the provincial team family compound not far from the venue—the closest option.

When they entered the compound, the security guard stopped them. Jack Bolton scratched his head, took out his phone to call the old doctor, while Chris Bolton, lying on his uncle’s back, couldn’t help but let his eyes wander to the pancake stall by the roadside.

Seeing this, Liam Sullivan turned around and bought a few pancakes, handing one to the child and explaining to Jack Bolton, “Senior brother, Dr. Quinn likes these. I’ll bring him one.”

Jack Bolton adjusted his nephew’s legs, gave Liam Sullivan a grateful smile, and reminded his nephew, who had already started eating.

“Xiaoyu, it’s fine to eat while on your uncle’s back, but if you dare drop crumbs on me, just see if I don’t smack you!”

With his mouth full, Chris Bolton mumbled a response. After a while, someone came running toward the compound gate.

As the person got closer, Liam Sullivan saw it was a tall young man with sharp, deep-set features and light gray eyes. In the middle of winter, he wore only a thin sweater the same color as his eyes, looking a bit like a lone wolf on a snowy plain.

The teenager looked down at the three of them, recalling his grandfather’s words: “A handsome, short, baby-faced guy,” “only about 1.7 meters tall,” “carrying a kid on his back.”

On the baby-faced man’s shoulder lay a fair, delicate-featured boy, cheeks puffed out as he earnestly munched on a pancake, looking just like a squirrel—strangely adorable.

After confirming their identities, the young man spoke in a Beijing accent: “My grandfather is Thomas Quinn. He asked me to come get you.”

Thomas Quinn was the old doctor they were looking for. With someone to lead the way, the security guard finally let them in. As they entered, Jack Bolton and Liam Sullivan whispered to each other.

“So this is Dr. Quinn’s grandson? He sure looks sturdy.”

After listening for a bit, Chris Bolton learned that Dr. Quinn’s wife was Russian, so the young man who came to meet them was a quarter Russian. Dr. Quinn’s son and daughter-in-law usually worked in Beijing, only bringing their son back to visit the elders during holidays.

Chris Bolton thought that this mixed-race guy looked young, but must be at least 1.85 meters tall. Both Jack Bolton and Liam Sullivan were men’s singles figure skaters, and the average height for Asian men’s singles was 1.7 meters. Compared to this probably underage guy, the two adults were actually shorter.

The pancake was brushed with sesame sauce, giving off a delicious aroma, and filled with tender egg and chicken. Chris Bolton ate with full concentration, finishing just as his uncle set him down on the sofa.

Chris Bolton rolled the greasy wrapper into a ball, about to look for a place to throw it away, when someone pushed a trash can to his hand with their foot. He looked up and thanked the kind person.

“Thank you.”

The teenager responded and introduced himself: “Emily Quinn, sixteen years old.”

“I’m Chris Bolton, twelve.”

Dr. Quinn was an elderly man with white hair and reading glasses, around sixty years old, retired for less than two years, but still energetic.

The old man calmly squeezed the child’s foot. Liam Sullivan looked worried: “Doctor, is the kid’s foot okay?”

“The kid’s foot is fine.”

Dr. Quinn spoke in a thick Northeastern accent: “No bone injury. Just rest for two weeks. Don’t do any intense exercise for now. If you’re worried, bring him back in a couple of days and I’ll do some moxibustion.”

As he spoke, the old doctor wrapped Chris Bolton’s foot with a pressure bandage and gave Jack Bolton a few patches of his own herbal plasters.

Jack Bolton scolded Chris Bolton again. Chris Bolton immediately raised his hand and swore he’d never secretly practice jumps alone again. But even Emily Quinn, just watching, could tell from the kid’s darting black eyes that he’d admit his mistake now, but would definitely do it again next time.

After a round of scolding and apologizing, both parties were parched. Two cups of water were placed on the coffee table. Chris Bolton picked one up and took a sip. The water carried the fragrance of monk fruit, soothing and at just the right temperature. Emily Quinn, who handed them the water, sat in a chair by the balcony, seriously reading a copy of "THE LANCET."

A silver-haired Slavic lady in a woolen dress, elegant in demeanor, invited them to stay for a meal. Liam Sullivan and Jack Bolton immediately stood up and respectfully addressed her as “Teacher Mia,” then were called over by Thomas Quinn to talk.

Emily Quinn picked up the remote and switched the TV to CCTV-6, which happened to be showing "How to Train Your Dragon."

Chris Bolton subtly felt like he was being treated like an elementary school student.

He added, “I’m in eighth grade.”

Emily Quinn glanced at him and replied seriously, “I’m a sophomore in college.”

Then he added, “'How to Train Your Dragon' is really good.”

Well, since he said so, Chris Bolton focused on the TV screen, while Emily Quinn continued reading. For a while, the atmosphere was surprisingly harmonious.

Chris Bolton discreetly observed Emily Quinn.

He knew Emily Quinn, though not for any good reason… In the next twelve years, this person would become the country’s top orthopedic surgeon, saving countless lives in the operating room thanks to his delicate and precise touch.

Yet, just a year before Chris Bolton’s death, Emily Quinn was blinded in a medical dispute, because while treating a late-stage malignant bone tumor, he amputated a patient’s leg to save their life.