I almost sprinted to the front of the ward.
There were only one or two nurses on duty inside. Zhao Qian's father, Zhao Xi, stood there rigidly, his face as white as paper. His bloodshot eyes were filled with exhaustion and frustration.
His father had died during the ritual performed by the Daoist priest he had invited. His daughter had nearly been strangled to death in the mourning hall. His son had killed his own friend and ended up at the police station. His wife had taken their relatives to the station to pull strings. As for his own useless self, all he could do was come to the hospital to look after his unconscious daughter—only for her heart to stop. Life and death had hung in the balance in an instant.
Zhao Xi had panicked. Deep self-reproach and helplessness clung to him like wronged ghosts. He did not know why he had been so unlucky, or how he had endured this day. If there had not been others nearby, he would never have doubted that he was about to kneel on the floor and wail his heart out.
The ward was thick with yin energy, practically spilling out through the door.
The door was half closed. Two nurses, their coldness and fear mingled together, trembled as they performed emergency treatment. Zhao Qian lay there motionless, her face greenish and her breathing gone. Every so often, her arms and feet twitched.
A ghastly seven- or eight-year-old boy in white knelt astride Zhao Qian. Black light gleamed in his eyes. His thin, slightly transparent hands had sunk into Zhao Qian's chest, gripping her heart tightly.
When the boy in white saw Han Shanshan and me arrive, he slowly turned his head. There was not a trace of white in his pupils,