Chapter 222: The Everyday Injured, Part Two

After tidying up, Henry threw the still-unconscious man inside the clinic and was just about to return to his rented room when the doorbell rang again. He had to don the Tinker persona once more and open the newly locked door.

It was a small mother, clutching a wailing child, looking utterly helpless. Her race was unquestionably Black. She was extremely petite, making one wonder if this Miss had even reached college graduation age, given how she contrasted with the average Black build.

After all, it wasn't his fault, and appearances varied from person to person—some simply looked younger. So the Tinker decided not to meddle in things that couldn't be changed.

Besides, this young mother was something of a regular. The scar across her brows stood out more sharply as she frowned. The Tinker asked, "What's wrong with the child?"

The child was about a year old, likely still unable to walk. He lay limp in his mother's arms, yet his cries were loud and forceful, as if trying to squeeze more life out of his limited existence.

"William has a fever again, and everything we feed him comes right back up—he won't eat anything. He also seems unable to move; every time we touch him, he cries out in pain. Doctor, please save him."

"Sigh. Come in. I'll see what I can do." Though he wanted to turn them away, the child's incessant wailing wore him down, and the Tinker let the mother and child inside.

The patient on the bed and the large bloodstains startled the young mother. With little space left in the clinic, the Tinker pointed to the only remaining chair. "Sit there. Expose the child's buttocks—I'm giving him a fever-reducing injection."

The Tinker opened the back door, stepped out, then returned with a tray holding medicines and tools.

He first wiped the area with alcohol-soaked cotton, then drew the medication into a syringe. With swift, precise motions, he injected the child's buttock—making the child's cries even louder.

Watching the mother's pained expression, the Tinker said coldly, "Take him home. I've told you before—we can do very little."

The grieving mother seemed to want more help, but the Tinker refused to open that door. Last time he let his sympathy run wild, he nearly ended up with a wife and child. Those two were trying to just move in permanently!

Only after adopting a far more ruthless stance had he driven the young mother away—otherwise, this black clinic would have turned into a charity shelter.

In general, you shouldn't give fever-reducing injections to children, because such shots only suppress symptoms—they offer no real cure.

But this child has poliomyelitis—the so-called "infantile paralysis." First, there is no drug to treat it; prevention relies solely on vaccination.

Second, among those infected, ninety percent show no symptoms and recover naturally; only ten percent develop severe symptoms.

Even children who develop severe inflammation may recover, but high fever can destroy brain nerve cells, leading to muscle contractures, abnormal development, and other consequences.

That means only supportive care to suppress symptoms and prevent irreversible bodily damage from the virus—then hope the body's immune system kicks in to save the child.

This is a disease with extremely high contagion. In 1990s America, the only reason such a disease would occur is if the child received no preventive vaccination after birth and was exposed to a high-risk environment.

In other words, the true cause of this disease isn't some vile virus—it's poverty. Even if you save him this time, countless hardships still await this mother and child.

Having experienced this once before, even without the Tinker's icy demeanor, the Black Miss knew his nature. She couldn't ask for more.

Ultimately, this whole mess stemmed from her lack of courage—to refuse, to give up, to die. If she'd been braver, would things have been different?

Pulling out several crumpled bills from her pocket, the Miss said, "This is all I have."

"Take it back," said the Tinker, tidying up his tools and gazing coldly at the mother and child, fallen into the abyss of hell. "I only take payment for lives. His life is worthless. Take him home. Prepare yourselves."

The Miss wanted to say more. But remembering the last time a gun had been pressed against her skull, her legs went weak and her voice died.

In the end, she gave up begging. She gathered the crumpled bills—rejected by all—and left, holding the child whose cries had slightly softened.

Before opening this black clinic, the Tinker thought he'd see many difficult cases from poor families who couldn't afford medical care. He never imagined the most common sight would be despair itself.

Many illnesses aren't beyond saving—like the child just now. But the Tinker had no confidence he could ensure the child would grow up healthy, with a full life.

If the child became a typical polio patient, he'd become a burden to the family. Especially with only one mother—when maternal love erodes into despair, the outcome grows even bleaker.

No wonder the ancients back home said: "If not a good minister, then a good doctor." The doctor is only the second choice. Because the hardest diseases are never in the body.

Perhaps he shouldn't have given that fever shot at all.

Carrying this thought, Henry returned to his rented room and shed the Tinker's disguise. The helplessness he felt lingered behind, left in the black clinic of South Los Angeles.

Recalling how he'd treated the gunshot victims and used his X-ray eyes to spot their IDs and other clues, he'd written them down on paper. Along with the information gathered from patients at the black clinic over these past days, Henry drove to the Continental Hotel.

Non-reward intelligence reports range from one to ten Zhan in value. As long as you provide a name plus movement, or a name plus plan, the rest depends on how many others have reported it.

If the same intelligence is reported by different people, the first reporter may receive five to ten Zhan, depending on how rich the details are.

Starting with the second reporter, the reward drops. But if no new information is given—only supplementary details to the original report—the reward is the minimum: one Zhan.

It's not zero because the designers of this intelligence system understood that the spread of a rumor itself is also intelligence.

Generally, the more people report something, the more credible it seems. But sometimes, an unusually widespread rumor suggests someone behind the scenes is manipulating it.

(End of Chapter)