The Police Help Lin An Find a Reason

O'Brien returned to the 103rd Precinct just as the sky was turning dark.

The fluorescent light above the precinct entrance, which never seemed to get fixed, remained the same, flickering on and off as if rolling its eyes at everyone coming and going.

He pushed the door open, and a scent—a mixture of coffee, disinfectant, and cheap air freshener—rushed to meet him... It was a smell he had been breathing for twenty years, and he could no longer tell if it was pleasant or foul.

There were only two people in the duty room.

The officer at the front desk was gnawing on a sandwich; he glanced at him and offered a muffled greeting.

At the desk next to the roster board, Sergeant Morales was frowning at his computer screen, his fingers tapping slowly on the keyboard as if struggling against some stubborn system.

Morales was fifty-two years old and had served twenty-six years in the NYPD, grinding his way up from a patrol officer to a sergeant.

His hair had already turned gray, and the wrinkles on his face made him look at least five years older than he actually was—this was likely the standard look for the 103rd Precinct in Jamaica; anyone who stayed here long enough aged a little faster.

The Jamaica Community was a Black neighborhood located at a crossroads in Queens. It wasn't the worst neighborhood, but it wasn't exactly great, either.

Especially after the financial crisis last year, headquarters had issued orders to the 103rd Precinct... Although they didn't provide much extra funding, they were required to prioritize public safety, making the precinct's workload much heavier than before.

Therefore, when O'Brien stood at the door, he hesitated for a moment.

The precinct was short-staffed, the workload was heavy, and he was currently...

Two thousand three hundred dollars.

O'Brien let out a heavy sigh.

"Knock, knock, knock."

"Sergeant Morales."

Morales looked up and took off his reading glasses. He looked at O'Brien, then at the clock on the wall.

"O'Brien? Aren't you supposed to be off duty?"

"Yes, sir. But... I would like to request leave for tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?"

Morales leaned back in his chair and tapped his fingers on the desk twice.

"What's the reason?"

This was supposed to be a routine question. On the NYPD leave application form, there was a "Reason for Leave" column; most of the time, writing "personal business" was enough, and no one would press for details.

But now, with the patrol workload at the 103rd Precinct being so heavy, a veteran officer suddenly asking for leave was undoubtedly adding another straw to the already overburdened station.

Consequently, there was a hint of "you'd better give me a good enough reason" in Morales's tone.

O'Brien hesitated.

Among the lower classes in America, having tax trouble was absolutely a major issue.

Once your supervisor found out, your career was effectively over because they would find reasons to dock your pay or even fire you.

And because of the sensitivity of their profession, police officers feared this more than the average person.

O'Brien didn't want his direct superior to know he was in a massive tax mess, as it would make him suspect that O'Brien had been taking dirty money.

But hiding it was even less advisable; when the IRS sent a letter to a police officer, there was a high probability that Internal Affairs would investigate what was going on, which would eventually lead to Morales finding out anyway.

On the premise that he hadn't taken any dirty money, bringing it up in advance still left room for a remedy; if he waited for his superiors to discover it themselves, the situation would become unmanageable.

Furthermore, as long as the leave was granted, he could wait at home for Dr. Lin An to arrive tomorrow, the matter could be resolved perfectly, and he might even get a tax refund.

So, this matter...

"The IRS sent a CP2000, sir," he said.

"They say I underreported income in 2008."

Morales's brow furrowed.

"How much did you underreport?"

"Seven thousand four hundred and thirty-one dollars."

"You underreported over seven thousand? When you were taking money, how could you be so careless as to use your own bank card?"

Morales's tone was one of astonishment.

"I didn't underreport, sir."

O'Brien's voice grew urgent.

"That money was from selling my father's old belongings on Amazon after he passed away, but the IRS letter says I received seven thousand four hundred and thirty-one dollars through PayPal, when in reality, I only received about thirty-five hundred."

"The rest was income from things my father sold while he was alive; his PayPal was linked to my bank account, and the IRS system just counted both sums as mine."

Morales listened and remained silent for a while.

He had been in this line of work for twenty-six years and had seen countless reports, disputes, and troubles.

But tax issues were different from a robbery on the street... In a robbery, there was at least a clear villain, but with tax issues, you couldn't even find where the enemy was.

"Since you're clear on the situation, you must have found someone to help you."

He asked.

"Did you find an accountant or a tax attorney? How much is it going to cost to fix?"

"Neither."

O'Brien said.

"While I was on patrol with Patrick last night, I met a PhD student who was being given a ride to the subway station on a bicycle by Ni Ge.

Because of Ni Ge, we stopped the bike, and that's how I met the PhD student from the Department of Mathematical Finance sitting on the back. I asked him for help today; we sat in a coffee shop, he looked through all my documents, and he knew exactly where the problem was.

He said he could help me write the application and resolve the tax issue."

"Really?"

Morales was a bit skeptical.

"How much is he charging you?"

"He doesn't want money. He's helping me for free."

Morales raised an eyebrow.

Free. In this country, the word "free" is more alarming than "cheap."

Cheap things at least have a price tag; free things... you never know what they might end up costing you.

"Were you kissed by God last night, and he specifically sent his angel to help you?"

"I don't think so, sir, because the PhD student I met is an international student from China, and he probably doesn't believe in God."

"Oh, a Chinese student, huh."

The skeptical look on Morales's face relaxed slightly, and he leaned back in his chair, crossing his hands over his stomach.

Chinese people are always very helpful, so that didn't surprise him.

"What school is he from?"

"He's a PhD student at Columbia University. Department of Mathematical Finance. His advisor is Robert Jero."

Morales nodded, and the wrinkles on his face seemed to smooth out a bit.

Having been a police officer in New York for twenty-six years, he had seen plenty of Chinese people.

There are good and bad among the Chinese, and lately, there have been more idiots running over from South America.

But excluding those dim-witted fools, most other Chinese people had left a good impression on him... they didn't commit crimes casually, and even if there were bad apples, they were usually white-collar crimes, rarely involving violence or murder.

International students from China, in particular, were the well-behaved, model students in Morales's mind.

He remembered something his daughter had said in the past.

When she was at the City University of New York, half the class were Chinese students. His daughter had complained about many things at home, like professors with heavy accents, the terrible cafeteria food, or the noisy dorms, but she had never complained about her Chinese classmates.

It wasn't because she didn't want to complain, but because there was nothing to complain about.

Those Chinese students sat in the front row during class, spent their time in the library after school, got A's on exams, and never caused trouble. Once, there was a shooting near the school; the American students were too scared to go out, but the Chinese students still carried their backpacks to the library as usual...

Because they had checked the police website and found that the crime scene was six blocks away from the library, which was "within the safe range."

At the time, Morales thought these Chinese kids were just too naive and trusted the police too easily.

Their way of thinking wasn't even on the same wavelength as the drug dealers, robbers, and thugs he usually dealt with.

"Sir, do you know Professor Robert Jero?"

"Never heard of him."

Morales's fingers paused on the keyboard, and he turned to look at O'Brien.

"But can't we just open the computer and look him up?"

He turned back and tapped a few keys on the keyboard. The faculty page for the Columbia University Department of Mathematical Finance popped up on the screen, and he squinted at it for a moment.

"Robert Jero... Financial Mathematics, Asset Pricing, Risk Management..."

He muttered as he read, then scrolled down the page.

"Professor in the Department of Mathematical Finance at Columbia University, Chair Professor of Investment Management at the Cornell University Johnson Graduate School of Management, formerly taught at MIT... PhD from MIT, studied under Nobel laureate Robert Merton."

Morales pushed his reading glasses up and looked closely at the content on the screen.

"It says here he is a top scholar in the field of international mathematical finance and has made pioneering contributions to asset pricing, term structure of interest rates, and credit risk modeling."

He finished reading and turned to glance at O'Brien.

"Your Chinese friend is a PhD student of this professor?"

"That's what he said, sir."

Morales turned back to keep reading. He clicked the mouse a few times and flipped to Professor Jero's list of publications.

"Pricing Financial Derivatives, Modeling Interest Rate Options, Credit Risk, Financial Markets and Risk Management..."

He read a few titles, then stopped and let out a sigh of amazement.

"This guy has written five books and published over a hundred papers."

He took off his reading glasses, leaned back in his chair, and looked at O'Brien.

"Do you have any idea what this means?"

"I don't, sir."

"It means that your Chinese friend's mentor is one of the people who understands financial mathematics better than anyone else in this world."

Morales tapped the screen with his finger.

"It's like... you know the officers at the precinct? If their instructor was a retired police commissioner, what kind of weight would that carry?"

O'Brien nodded; he understood that analogy.

"And..."

Morales turned back, typed a few words into the search box, and pressed enter, causing more results to pop up on the screen.

He clicked on a page and read aloud.

"Professor Jero, for his outstanding contributions to the field of financial mathematics, was awarded the 1997 Financial Engineer of the Year by the International Association of Financial Engineers and was inducted into the Fixed Income Analysts Society Hall of Fame and the Risk magazine Hall of Fame..."

He stopped after reading that far.

"Hiss... this is a big shot."

He closed the browser window, turned around, folded his hands over his stomach, and looked at O'Brien with a scrutinizing gaze.

"So you really know a student of such a famous professor?"

"Yes, sir."

Morales was silent for a few seconds, then turned back to face the computer screen.

"O'Brien, what is your Chinese friend's name?"

"Lin An, sir."

"How do you spell it?"

"L-I-N, A-N."

Morales entered the name, his finger hovering over the enter key for a second before pressing it.

As the screen loaded, he took off his reading glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

The New York police system is very comprehensive; with Inspector Morales's clearance, he could look up a person's arrest records, criminal records, traffic tickets, parking violations, and even tickets for drinking in a park.

After the system refreshed, Morales looked at the computer, his brow furrowing.

"What did you find, sir?"

Morales didn't answer immediately; he leaned forward again and typed in several new search keywords... the DMV database, New York municipal records, and even the federal criminal database interface.

Every time, the result was the same.

He closed the DMV window and opened another page: the municipal property system, utility registrations, voter registration, and library card applications.

There was nothing.

He leaned back in his chair, stared at the screen, and tapped his fingers on the desk twice.

"You know what, O'Brien?"

He said.

"What, sir?"

"Dr. Lin An has nothing in the system. No arrest records, no criminal records, no traffic tickets, no parking violations, no driver's license, no property, no utility bills, not even a library card."

He paused.

"He's clean to the point of being a blank slate."

The duty room was quiet for a few seconds; the officer at the front desk had finished his sandwich and was licking the sauce off his fingers, his ears pricked up high.

O'Brien's throat moved as he swallowed.

"Sir, what could be the reason for this?"

"I'm not sure yet, let me check again."

Morales thought for a moment.

"He's an international student from China, his name is different from ours, it's possible his name is spelled incorrectly.

For Chinese names, some are Lin, some are Lam, some are Lynn; the system doesn't recognize these, so I'll try again."

Morales turned back and typed a few more words, this time trying several different spellings, testing each one.

This time, results did appear, but these people were clearly not the Lin An that O'Brien had described.

"Huh, could he be an illegal immigrant?"

The front desk officer, who had wandered over at some point, said, which made even the veteran policeman Morales suspicious.

"O'Brien, tell me about what happened at the coffee shop again, be specific..."

O'Brien nodded and recounted the events at the coffee shop, focusing on how Lin An had only looked for a moment before identifying the key issue in a pile of documents, and how his math was super fast, calculating his tax figures in the blink of an eye.

Such an ability made Morales doubt his own judgment, so he thought for a moment and found a reason.

"If Dr. Lin An is a new student, it would be normal for the police system to have no record of him, but is it currently the enrollment season for Columbia University?

Wait a second, I'll call my daughter and ask."

He picked up the phone on the desk, scrolled through his contacts, and dialed. The phone rang three or four times before it was answered on the other end.

"Dad?"

"Caitlyn, I need to ask you something."

Morales leaned back in his chair, his voice much softer than when he was speaking to O'Brien.

"Does your school recruit new students in March?"

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line.

"Why are you asking that?"

"Help me check if it's possible for a doctoral student in the Department of Mathematical Finance at Columbia University to enroll in March."

"The Department of Mathematical Finance?"

Caitlyn's voice rose slightly.

"Dad, you aren't investigating someone again, are you?"

"Just tell me if it's possible."

Caitlyn sighed, the kind of sigh that said, "I can't do anything with you."

"Fine, I'll ask for you, but I have to tell you that doctoral programs usually start in the fall, in September. March is not a normal enrollment time."

Morales frowned.

"So it's impossible?"

"I didn't say it was impossible."

Caitlyn's tone became serious.

"I just said it's not normal. Wait a second, I have a... uh, a friend who is a doctoral student at Columbia University, let me ask."

The sound of keyboard clacking came from the other end of the phone, along with faint voices. Morales placed the phone on the desk and turned on the speakerphone so O'Brien could hear as well.

After about five minutes, Caitlyn's voice returned.

"Dad, are you still there?"

"I'm here."

"I asked around. The situation in the Department of Mathematical Finance is this: normal doctoral enrollment is indeed in the fall, but there are a few special circumstances where they can come in at other times."

"What kind of special circumstances?"

"The first is if a professor has an urgent project and needs manpower."

Caitlyn's voice sounded like she was reading from a list.

"For example, if a lab receives emergency funding, or if someone suddenly drops out of a project and they need a new person to finish it up, the professor can apply to the department for a special enrollment time."

Morales glanced at O'Brien.

"What's the second one?"

"The second is a pre-doctoral visiting researcher."

Caitlyn said.

"This is a bit of a gray area. The student isn't officially enrolled but joins the group early as a visiting researcher. The professor uses their own funding to pay a stipend, letting the student work first, and then converts them into an official doctoral student once the formal fall admission process is complete.

However, doing this is a bit risky. After March, if the official offer doesn't come through, the student becomes an 'illegal' researcher without status."

"Is this common?"

"Not common, but not rare either. I know a Chinese student in physics who came half a year early. His professor had a project that urgently needed people, so he brought him over first."

Morales tapped his fingers on the desk twice.

"Are there any other situations?"

"There are, but they are quite rare."

Caitlyn said.

"Some projects have collaborations with the government or other institutions and require students to be in place at specific times. For example, in climate finance, they have a partnership with FEMA and recruit people every March to do stress tests before hurricane season.

But this is usually not called enrollment; it's called a pre-research position."

She paused.

"Dad, who exactly are you investigating?"

"A Chinese man who claims to be a doctoral student in the Department of Mathematical Finance at Columbia University, and his advisor is Robert Jero."

The other end of the line went quiet for about three seconds.

"Robert Jero?"

Caitlyn's voice changed.

"Are you talking about Professor Jero, the one who wrote Pricing Financial Derivatives?"

"You know him?"

"I don't know him personally, but I've heard of him."

Caitlyn's tone became a bit strange.

"Dad, do you know what level of person Professor Jero is?"

"I know. Hall of Fame, five books, over a hundred papers."

"Then do you know that he was just poached from MIT to Columbia last year?"

Morales raised an eyebrow.

"What does that mean?"

"It means that Professor Jero brought his entire team with him. He brought three postdocs and two doctoral students from MIT who transferred over with him.

This is very rare in academia. When a top-tier professor changes schools, they sometimes bring their students along."

She paused.

"So, if the Chinese person you're looking into is one of Professor Jero's students, it's possible he transferred from MIT with his advisor last year.

Transfer procedures like that can take over half a year, so it's possible he arrived in March of this year."

Morales nodded slowly.

"So you're saying that enrolling in March isn't impossible?"

"It's not impossible, just uncommon."

Caitlyn said.

"But for someone like Professor Jero, the department will accommodate him whenever he wants to recruit a student. Think about it: a Nobel Prize winner's student follows him from MIT to Columbia. Do you think the department would turn him away just because his enrollment date was a semester late?"

She chuckled.

"Dad, in your police force, if a big shot transfers from a precinct to headquarters, wouldn't he bring the officers he works well with along with him?"

Morales didn't answer, but he glanced at O'Brien; he understood the analogy.

"There's one more thing."

Morales said.

"Why would a PhD student in mathematical finance let a nigger ride him around on a bicycle through the streets of Jamaica?"

There was a long silence on the other end of the line.

"Dad, if he were American, I'd think he was sick, a lunatic. But if he's Chinese... there's a high probability he just wants to understand New York?"

"Understand New York?"

"Yes, I have a Chinese classmate, a physics major, who went to Staten Island on the weekend and rode the ferry back and forth four times just because someone said it was the best angle to see the Statue of Liberty.

And another one, a computer science major, who went all the way to the Bronx to photograph graffiti walls and came back to write a blog post called something like 'The Other Side of New York'."

She paused.

"Chinese people are sometimes like that. They come to America not just to study; they want to see what this country is really like.

So they do things that... Americans find inexplicable."

"Like riding around Jamaica on a bicycle?"

"Like riding around Jamaica on a bicycle."

Caitlyn said.

"Especially for a Chinese student who just arrived. He's new to New York, doesn't know anyone, and wants to see the city. What better way is there than riding around on a bicycle?"

She laughed.

"And you said he was being carried by a nigger? That nigger might just be the guide he hired.

When I was in school, my Chinese classmates also loved finding locals to take them around. I even took a Chinese classmate to explore Flushing back then."

Morales snorted.

"Fine, I get it."

"Dad, you still haven't told me..."

"Hanging up."

"Dad!"

Morales hung up the phone and placed it on the table. He looked at O'Brien, his expression somewhere between relief and something else.

"You heard it all."

"I heard it, sir."

"So your Chinese friend probably transferred from MIT to Columbia in January, and by March... the paperwork was likely finished, and he started wandering around."

He leaned back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head.

"Riding a bicycle, letting a guy like Ni Ge drive him around Jamaica. Seeing what this country is actually like."

He said this sentence very slowly, as if savoring some hidden meaning within it.

"O'Brien."

"Sir?"

"Do you know what conclusion I reached after all this digging?"

"What conclusion, sir?"

"The conclusion is..."

Morales took off his reading glasses and placed them on the desk.

"This Dr. Lin An is indeed a Chinese person."

He paused.

"A normal, ordinary Chinese person who rides a bicycle around."

He emphasized the words "normal" and "ordinary," as if he were speaking of something worth celebrating.

"He isn't an illegal immigrant, not a con artist, and not some suspicious character; he's just a Chinese student who transferred from MIT to Columbia University for his doctorate.

And then, you just happened to have tax trouble, asked him for help, he agreed to take a look at your tax forms, and you came running to me for leave as if you'd grabbed onto a life-saving straw."

He shook his head, but there was a faint, imperceptible curve at the corner of his mouth.

"O'Brien, you know what? You were truly kissed by God last night."

After saying this, he picked up the leave request form, glanced at it, signed his name, and put it into a drawer.

"Be here on time the day after tomorrow morning."

"Yes, sir."

"And one more thing..."

Morales called out to stop him.

"Next time you see him, ask him what his name is—not the English spelling, but his Chinese name. Chinese names are significant; a name is like a poem. If you ask clearly, you'll be able to address him correctly next time you meet."

He paused.

"Don't let him think that the New York police are all uncultured brutes."

"Yes, sir."

O'Brien turned to leave, but as he reached the door, Morales's voice came from behind him.

"O'Brien."

"Sir?"

"When you see him tomorrow, thank him for me... oh, and right, ask me if Dr. Lin An likes to shoot."

O'Brien froze.

He stood at the door, one hand still on the doorknob, and turned his head to look at Morales. The question had come too suddenly, like a ball flying in from the side; he wasn't prepared to catch it at all.

"Shoot, sir?"

"Yes."

Morales leaned back in his chair, fingers crossed over his stomach, his expression casual, as if he were just asking, "Nice weather today, isn't it?"

"A doctoral student from China, riding a bicycle all over New York, shows he has a strong sense of curiosity and likes to have fun.

If he's interested in guns, I can take him to the range. The precinct has shooting training quotas every quarter, and we can bring family or friends."

He paused.

"Consider it a thank you for helping you solve your tax problem."

O'Brien opened his mouth, not knowing what to say.

He recalled how the young man looked in the coffee shop... refined and courteous, speaking in a measured, unhurried way, looking at the tax forms as if he were reading a newspaper. That kind of person, placed alongside a gun—it just didn't seem to fit.

"I... I'm not sure, sir. He looks like a standard Chinese international student, very cultured."

Morales nodded, as if he had expected this answer all along.

"Then ask him tomorrow."

He said.

"Chinese people are sometimes too embarrassed to say directly what they want; you have to take the initiative to ask. I used to know a Chinese restaurant owner. I invited him to dinner, and he kept saying 'no need, no need,' but when I insisted and dragged him there, he ate three bowls of rice."

He chuckled.

"So just ask him: Dr. Lin An, are you interested in guns? Our precinct has a range, we can go play on the weekend... just say it directly like that. Sometimes Chinese people don't quite understand when Americans beat around the bush."

"Yes, sir."

O'Brien said, but his mind was already on something else... was Dr. Lin An's status legal?

If he transferred from MIT with his advisor, he should have a visa, a student ID, and a Columbia University ID card. Taking him to the shooting range shouldn't be a problem, right?

Morales seemed to see right through his thoughts.

"Don't overthink it, O'Brien."

He said.

"A PhD student from Columbia, what kind of trouble could he be? My daughter said he transferred from MIT with Professor Jero.

MIT is one of the best schools in the world. Anyone who can get into a school like that has had their background checked eight hundred times over."

He waved his hand.

"I just want to meet him. A Chinese PhD student who transferred from MIT to Columbia, riding on the back of a bicycle through the streets of Jamaica, and even willing to help a cop look at his tax forms for free... I want to get to know a person like that."

He said the word "know" very lightly, as if he were talking about something perfectly natural.

"Besides."

He added.

"Do you know how pathetic the shooting scores at the 103rd Precinct are right now? In last quarter's assessment, the pass rate for the whole precinct was only seventy percent. If this keeps up, headquarters is going to come looking for trouble.

An MIT PhD student, financial mathematics—his math must be good. People who are good at math shouldn't be bad at shooting."

O'Brien thought about it and felt like this logic was somehow off, but he couldn't quite put his finger on why.

"I'll ask him tomorrow, sir."

"Mm."

Morales nodded.

"Ask him clearly, then come back and tell me. If he's interested, I'll take him to the precinct's shooting range next Saturday morning. It's quiet then, not many people around."

He took a sticky note from his drawer, wrote a few words on it, and handed it to O'Brien.

"This is my cell number. If he's willing to come, have him give me a call. My name is Morales; tell him to just call me Morales. Don't call me Sergeant or sir; it sounds too distant."

O'Brien took the note and glanced at it. A string of numbers was written on it, along with a name—Frank Morales.

"Frank?"

O'Brien was a bit surprised. He had worked with Morales for over a decade and had never known his first name. At the precinct, everyone called him "Sergeant Morales" or simply "sir."

"What, am I not allowed to have a name?"

Morales said, his tone carrying a hint of impatience, but there was a smile in his eyes.

"Alright, stop standing there dazed. Be at work on time the day after tomorrow."

"Yes, sir."

"Call me what?"

O'Brien froze for a moment.

"...Yes, Sergeant Morales."

Morales shook his head and sighed.

"Go on."

O'Brien pushed the door open and walked into the hallway. The fluorescent lights in the corridor hummed, and the wanted posters on the wall turned yellow under the light.

He passed the locker he had used for ten years, passed the coffee machine that never dispensed hot water, and passed the chart on the window labeled "2009 First Quarter Crime Statistics."

He pushed the door open and stepped outside.

That flickering fluorescent light was still blinking, and the March wind blew in from the street corner, carrying a hint of rain. He stood at the entrance, took a deep breath, and then smiled with a sense of relief.

He suddenly felt that things were really moving in a better direction; a twenty-three-hundred-dollar fine had turned into a potential tax refund.

He took the sticky note out of his pocket and looked at it again.

Frank Morales.

He folded the note, put it back in his pocket, and then pulled out his phone. He flipped to the number he had saved not long ago, and this time, he didn't hesitate and pressed the call button.

The phone rang three times before it was answered.

"Hello?"

"Dr. Lin An."

O'Brien said, his voice lighter than he had expected, "This is O'Brien. I'll be waiting for you at my place tomorrow at three."

"Alright, Mr. O'Brien, I will be there on time."

"One more thing."

O'Brien said. He hesitated for a moment, then said it all in one breath.

"Our sergeant asked me to ask you—are you interested in guns?"

There was silence on the other end of the line for two seconds.

"I am quite interested, but the shooting ranges in New York refuse to let me in."

"That works out perfectly."

O'Brien said.

"Our precinct has a shooting range. The sergeant said that if you're interested, I can take you there next Saturday to mess around. Consider it... a thank you for helping me."

Two seconds of silence.

"Very well, Mr. O'Brien. Please tell Sergeant Morales... that I am interested."

O'Brien let out a sigh of relief.

"See you tomorrow then, Dr. Lin."

"See you tomorrow."

The call ended, and O'Brien set off toward the parking lot, his steps light.