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Elianfrozeforabeat.Beforehecouldevenprocesswhathadhappehegirlwho’dneededawalljusttowalksuddenlyspunaroundlikeastartledrabbitandsprintedfortheic’sfrontdoorwithoutlookingback.
“LinChu-Qing初晴!”
Elian’seyesflewwideasheshoutedhername.
ButCracouldn’thearhim.Herfigure—shirtanddenimshorts—streakeddownthehallwayinablur,shotpastthewaitingarea,andsmmedthroughtheheavygssdoor.
Bang!
Thegssdoorshudderedviolently.
Everypatientintheic,everynurse—alongwiththeolderdoctorwhohadjuststeppedout—stared,stutheydoorway.
Elianstoodthere,hislefthandstillstuthepostureofhavingsupportedher,herbackpack—packedwiththickreferencebooks—stillhangingfromhisrightshoulder,andthefreshlyprintedpaymentslipandprescriptionstillchedinhishand.
“…Whatanidiot.”
Hegroundthewordsoutthroughhisteeth.Tossingthenurseahurried,“I’llebackforthemedie,”heimmediatelybrokeintoalong-legged,furioussprintouttheicdoor.
Themomentheshoveditopen,awaveofOctobernoo—30°C86°F—andblindingsunlightsmmedintohisface.
PeoplestreamedthroughthetanglednesoffNanyangStreet.Elianwhippedhisheadleftandright—andquicklycaughtsightofthatfamiliarback,lessthanfiftymetersaheadattheinterse,stillrunningforherlife.
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