Chapter 73: Sorry, Daughter

1:00 a. m.

Roger leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and felt the place was as silent as a morgue.

Under the dim, flickering bulb, the homeless men lay sprawled across iron-framed beds, their skin a strange ashen gray, as if they had long stopped breathing.

But as time passed, indistinct murmurs suddenly arose from various beds.

Roger opened his eyes.

The nearest bed held a bearded man who growled in slurred English: "Don't hit me… I have money…"

A bit farther away, someone wrapped in a thin blanket wept desperately in Spanish: "Mom, I'm so cold…"

Others merely emitted muffled, guttural whimpers, like dying beasts.

The most piercing among these sounds was the grating, teeth-grinding "squeak," and a rasping, uneven tone like a broken bellows, rising and falling.

Listening to the noise around him, Roger felt as if he were sealed inside a giant glass box.

Damn it!

No wonder Paul said night shift workers got the worst luck.

Yet just as Roger was annoyed by the chaotic sounds, an old homeless man by the window suddenly began convulsing violently.

Amid his agonizing coughs, yellowish, bloody spittle sprayed everywhere.

The man opposite him, who had been sound asleep, seemed terrified—his face turned instantly ashen, and he let out a rasping, "gurgling" sound of suffocation from his throat.

His hands frantically clawed at his neck, his legs kicked helplessly against the bed frame, as if he would choke to death in the next second.

Damn it!

Roger knew he was choking on saliva.

He quickly lifted the homeless man up, placed a clenched fist two fingers above his navel, wrapped his other hand around the fist, and delivered rapid, forceful thrusts to the abdomen.

This was the Heimlich Maneuver—it worked instantly for severe choking.

Indeed, after several abdominal thrusts, the homeless man coughed up a thick phlegm onto the floor and resumed normal breathing.

"Thank you… thank you, you saved my life." The man lay back on the bed, dazed, repeating thanks over and over.

"Bless you, bless me, bless Meilijian… God…"

But he could only repeat "thank you" and "bless," as if those were the only words left in his vocabulary.

Roger sighed and sat back down in his chair.

But the noise didn't fade—it grew louder with time.

By 2:00 a. m.

"Thud!"

A gaunt man suddenly arched his back as if struck by an invisible whip, then his teeth chattered violently, clicking as if he would shatter them himself.

He began frantically scratching his arms, leaving deep, blood-tinged grooves, his fingernails caked with grime and skin flakes.

"Drug… give me…" he croaked, his eyes bulging with fear and despair.

Roger frowned, recognizing withdrawal—he quickly grabbed a large bottle of painkillers from a nearby stainless steel tray.

By the time he walked over, other patients had been awakened by the addict's outburst.

Some numbly rolled over and pulled blankets over their heads; others stared at the painkillers in Roger's hand, reaching out their hands; some muttered curses in their native tongues.

Roger ignored them, walked straight to the man, and shoved several pills into his mouth.

The man chewed frantically and greedily swallowed every last bit of residue.

Soon, his frequency of scratching his skin decreased.

But he still muttered: "Not enough… give me more… drug."

"That's all." Roger had to ensure others had medicine when they needed it, so he refused.

The man seemed not to hear, still repeating "not enough" over and over.

Roger didn't linger—he gave painkillers to other sick homeless men, then returned to his chair.

"This is unbearable."

For the first time, Roger felt the night was so long, so endless, as if no light would ever appear.

If a person only saw the glitter and revelry of Los Angeles and New York, he would feel joy and excitement, and believe Meilijian was the best country in the world,

but if a person witnessed the suffering and helplessness of these lower-class people, who couldn't even get a full meal each day, he would feel oppression and unease, and believe this place was the worst country in the world.

One can only say: angels and demons coexist in Meilijian, like two sides of the same coin.

But no matter whether most people could survive the night, sunlight would still fall upon the shelter at its fixed hour.

"Oh, great, today's still a rainy damn day."

At 5:00 a. m., listening to the drizzle outside the window, Roger yawned.

At that moment, the volunteer nurse on duty walked over.

"Here." She held out a white chocolate bar.

"Thanks, I really needed something sweet."

Roger tore open the wrapper, slipped the white creamy chocolate into his mouth, savored its smoothness, and looked toward the now-silent homeless men on their beds.

"Is it like this every day?"

"Yes, every day," the nurse shrugged. "Actually, last night wasn't even the worst. Sometimes I feel this place is a graveyard where the dead come back to life."

Roger smiled: "Then aren't we necromancers?"

"Too bad we can't bring the dead back."

After saying this, both fell silent.

Just then, the gaunt man who had fallen asleep after taking the painkillers last night suddenly began trembling all over.

"Cold… so cold."

The nurse hurried forward and felt his forehead.

"He has a high fever. Quickly, get an ice pack."

Roger heard this and left, returning shortly with an ice pack, which he placed on the homeless man's forehead.

The homeless man improved slightly, but his face remained burning red, and his consciousness grew hazy.

"He won't last much longer." Having seen too many similar cases, the nurse quickly made an accurate assessment of the man's condition.

"What's his condition?" Roger asked.

From his clothing, he looked somewhat like a homeless man, but not as filthy as one.

"He's a worker from this area. He was brought in yesterday with pneumonia," the nurse explained.

"Does he have no family?"

"I heard he has a daughter, but they couldn't reach her when he fell ill."

"Alright."

Meanwhile, the emaciated man seemed to hear the word "daughter," and suddenly began muttering.

"I'm sorry… I'm truly sorry… I shouldn't have…"

The man rattled off a long string of words, but because his English was mixed with heavy Mexican Spanish, Roger, with his limited vocabulary, struggled to understand.

"What's he saying?"

The nurse fell silent for a moment: "Do you really want to know?"

"Of course."

The nurse translated: "He says: I'm sorry, daughter. I shouldn't have given you to the gang, shouldn't have taken drugs, shouldn't have racked up so much debt and made you sell yourself on the streets."

"He says: I'm in pain, I'm about to die, but I still haven't paid back the gang."

"He says: My daughter, but what will you do? How will you face those gang members in the future?"

"He says: I should get up and work, even if I'm dying—just enough to earn a little more money."

"He says…"

Listening to these dry, concise translations, Roger fell into a long silence.

Like a statue of a silent thinker.

At that moment, a rapid clatter of high heels approached.

"Bang."

The shelter's door was flung open.

The next second, a girl rushed in, her eyes filled with panic, her heavy makeup smudged into a blur by rain.

"Dad!"

Her voice, sharp with urgency, swept the room, then locked onto the emaciated man as she sprinted toward him.

"Dad!"

She grabbed the man's hand on the bed and turned to the nurse: "What's wrong with him! Why is he so hot!"

"I'm sorry," the nurse said calmly. "He has pneumonia and a high fever. You may still have time to say goodbye."

"No! I just earned money! I can take him to the hospital!" The girl frantically pulled several hundred-dollar bills from her bag and threw them onto the bed. "If we get him to the hospital, he'll be fine, right?"

She spoke with a tone bordering on pleading.

But the nurse shook her head slightly: "It's not enough, child."

The girl froze, her reddened eyes finally spilling over with tears, large drops sliding down her cheeks.

"No… God…"

"Xiaer."

Suddenly, a man's voice cut through her sobs.

Xiaer turned and found Roger standing behind her.

"You… you're here too?"

"We'll talk about that later. First, give him this pill." As he spoke, Roger pulled a tablet from his pocket and handed it to her.

Xiaer stared blankly at the pill in her palm, then at Roger's serious expression, as if making some inner decision, she turned and said: "Give me a glass of water!"