Chapter 1

To earn medical expenses for my six-year-old autistic son, my wife Anna took on the high-risk job of river dredging through my brother Brandon's introduction.

During a flood season, she and my brother accidentally fell into the water and drowned.

Three months after they left, my son also died from prolonged refusal to eat and stress-induced exhaustion.

To prevent others from repeating my son's tragedy, I took care of my wife's parents while burying myself in study. I developed a specialized treatment plan for severe autism, and later opened a charity clinic to help autistic children free of charge.

Until that day when I suddenly received a call for help.

"Is this Dr. Smith speaking?"

"My daughter also has severe autism. Can you save her?"

I froze, because on the other end of the line was the voice of my wife who had been dead for ten years.

On the phone, the woman pleaded almost humbly:

"Dr. Smith, please, you're our last hope."

A man's voice came from beside her, tearful:

"Dr. Smith, my daughter's name is Lucy. She's four years old with severe autism, and she's contracted uremia. She refuses medical treatment—she's terrified of doctors. Now she has multiple organ failure, and the hospital has issued a critical condition notice."

"We've asked everywhere. In the whole country, only you can save her!"

I'd received no less than a hundred such calls in ten years.

My charity clinic was the last lifeline for countless families with autistic children.

Every time, my answer had been yes, and I never charged a penny.

But this time, suppressing the chill rising from my very bones, I interrupted her directly:

"The child's name, age, and parents' names."

The phone went quiet for a moment before the woman spoke:

"The child's name is Lucy. She's four years old. My name is Anna, and her father's name is..."

"Brandon."

I finished for her.

The line went dead silent, as if surprised I would know.

Anna, Brandon.

These two names, after ten years, stabbed viciously into my heart once again.

I felt instantly transported back to that funeral ten years ago.

The venue was packed with people.

The coffin sat beside an open grave as people stood in silence, holding black umbrellas.

Anna's mother collapsed on the coffin, crying until she could barely breathe:

"Anna! My daughter! How could you die—"

Anna's father stood beside her, eyes red, supporting her, his voice trembling:

"Don't cry, don't cry... let Anna leave this world in peace..."

Several relatives reached out to pull Anna's mother back, some offering tissues, some patting her back, murmuring:

"I'm so sorry for your loss."

I stood to the side holding three-year-old Lorne, feeling completely hollowed out.

Lorne, uncomfortable from my tight grip, patted my face with his small hand:

"Daddy, hurts..."

Anna's voice took on a tentative tone.

"Dr. Smith, you... you know us?"

I didn't answer, only heard Anna urgently whispering to Brandon on the other end, then promising me again:

"Dr. Smith, money is no object. We'll give you whatever we have!"

"As long as you're willing to help, we're willing to donate... no, to pay you one million! Please!"

One million.

Back then, when Anna abandoned our son who also had autism, she took the two hundred thousand dollars in death benefits—my son's lifeline—and faked her death to escape. How resolute she had been then.

Now, to save her daughter with Brandon, Anna was truly generous.

My fingers gripping the pen turned white from the pressure as I spoke, word by word.

"I'm sorry, this child—I won't save her."

"Why?!"

Anna's voice suddenly shot up, full of disbelief.

"We can pay more! Two million! Dr. Smith, you've always been..."

Anna couldn't finish her sentence.

I hung up directly.

The phone slipped from my trembling palm and hit the desk with a dull thud.

Finally, the whole world was quiet.