Calculations from a Hospital Bed

pain.

It wasn't a sharp, tearing pain. It was a dull, heavy pain that crept up from the deepest part of my chest, like a wad of soaked cotton stuffed in my lungs. Every breath required me to push it away with all my might, but it would just come right back in the next second. My throat also hurt, as if it had been repeatedly sanded, and swallowing saliva felt like swallowing a knife.

Zheng Dong opened his eyes.

My vision was initially a blurry white, then slowly cleared. The ceiling was stark white, completely devoid of decoration. A rectangular ceiling light was off. To the left was a pale blue curtain, half-drawn. To the right, various instruments displayed colorful lines and numbers on their screens. Beep, beep, rhythmic, cold.

It took him a few seconds to remember where he was: the hospital, the ICU, and now he was back in.

He tried to move his hands and found an IV needle inserted into the back of his right hand, connected to a tube that extended all the way to the IV stand beside the bed. The liquid in the transparent bag was dripping, drop by drop, incredibly slowly. Something was held between his fingers in his left hand, connected to another machine. Electrodes were attached to his chest. On his neck... he seemed to be wearing an oxygen mask on his neck, the plastic edge digging into his skin, making him feel a little itchy.

He turned his head with difficulty.

His wife was asleep by the bedside, her hair disheveled, with tear stains at the corners of her eyes. On the bedside table sat a half-full glass of water, an opened box of cookies, and his phone—the screen was cracked; he had smashed it in a fit of anger the last time.

Memories are like rocks after the tide has receded, revealing themselves piece by piece.

Shareholders' meeting. Arguments. Loss figures. Tax audit. Old Qian's voice. "A brave man cuts off his own arm..."

Even earlier—television news, the freezer thermometer, the blackened cotton swabs, the blocked passageway—those images flashed through his mind, over and over again.

The wad of cotton around his chest tightened suddenly, and he coughed violently. A hoarse sound came from his throat, like a broken bellows.

His wife woke up with a start, jerked her head up, saw his eyes were open, and tears instantly streamed down her face. "Old Zheng! You're awake! Doctor! Doctor, he's awake!"

A flurry of activity ensued. A nurse came in, checked the equipment, adjusted the IV drip rate, and asked him how he was feeling. Zheng Dong opened his mouth, but no sound came out. The nurse moistened his lips with a cotton swab dipped in water.

"Don't rush, take your time. It's good that you're awake, it's good that you're awake." His wife held his hand; her hand was cold and trembling.

The doctor arrived, reviewed the monitoring data, and asked a few simple questions. Zheng Dong could only nod or shake his head in response. Finally, the doctor said, "His condition is stable for now, but he cannot be subjected to any further stimulation. Rest well, speak as little as possible, and keep your emotions calm."

After the doctors and nurses left, only the two of them remained in the ward.

His wife tucked the blanket around him and whispered, "Old Qian and the others... are waiting outside. Do you want to see them?"

Zheng Dong closed his eyes and shook his head. He didn't want to see anyone right now. What would he say? Would he hear their reports on how much money they'd lost, how many more stores had closed, and which department had issued the latest fine?

"Well... about the company..."

Zheng Dong suddenly opened his eyes and stared at his wife. His eyes held both pleading and warning.

The wife swallowed back what she was about to say, lowered her head, and wiped her eyes. "Okay, okay, I won't see you or talk about it. You just focus on getting better, and we'll talk about it later."

She sat for a while longer, then got up to pour water. Zheng Dong watched her Back View and suddenly noticed that her back was a little hunched. She used to always stand straight, dressed impeccably, and accompanied him to various occasions with an impeccable smile. Now, she was only wearing an ordinary knitted cardigan, her hair casually tied up, and her Back View looked as thin as a sheet of paper.

That wad of cotton wool is back in my chest. This time it's prickly.

The phone screen lit up briefly—a text message notification. His wife, oblivious, returned with a glass of water. Zheng Dong, however, stared intently at the shattered screen. The screen lit up for a few seconds, then went dark again. He didn't know who it was or what it said, but his heart began to pound uncontrollably.

Beep, beep. The heart rate monitor's numbers jumped up a few points.

His wife noticed and quickly said, "Don't look at your phone, don't think about anything, close your eyes and rest."

Zheng Dong obediently closed his eyes. But in the darkness, the numbers, images, and sounds became even clearer. A loss of five million, a 60% drop in customer traffic, banks demanding repayment, tax audits, fire department seals, sanitation fines... all these thoughts raced through his mind like a revolving lantern, faster and faster.

He suddenly opened his eyes again, panting heavily.

"What's wrong? Are you feeling unwell?" his wife asked anxiously.

Zheng Dong shook his head, panting. Cold sweat beaded on his forehead.

There was a gentle knock on the ward door. The wife got up to open it, and there was her secretary, Xiao Wang, holding a folder. She looked worse than before, with dark circles under her eyes, as if she hadn't slept for days.

"Sister-in-law, Chairman Zheng, he..."

"She's awake, but the doctor won't let her see anyone; she can't be stimulated." The wife stood in the doorway, her voice low.

"I... I just want to say a few words, it's very important, Chairman Zheng must know." Xiao Wang's voice was trembling with tears.

Zheng Dong heard it. He laboriously raised his hand, which hadn't been injected, and waved.

His wife hesitated for a moment, then stepped aside. Xiao Wang walked in, stood by the bed, looked at Zheng Dong's pale and haggard face, his lips trembling, and couldn't say a word for a long time.

"Speak," Zheng Dong said, his voice hoarse as if two pieces of sandpaper were rubbing together.

Xiao Wang took a deep breath and opened the folder. Inside were several documents. He picked up the top one, which was a lawyer's letter format, but it wasn't one that had been sent out; it was one that had been received.

"Chairman Zheng, this... this is a formal lawyer's letter from Zhou Wenyuan Law Firm, representing Lin Feng..." Xiao Wang's voice trembled. "They're accusing us of... commercial defamation, infringement of reputation, and abuse of judicial resources... demanding a public apology, compensation for losses, and reserving the right to pursue criminal charges."

Zheng Dong stared at the document without saying a word, but his breathing became heavier.

"Furthermore," Xiao Wang turned to the next document, "the S Province Tax Bureau Inspection Branch... has officially opened a case. This is the case filing notice. They've requested all our accounting books, vouchers, contracts, and bank statements for the past three years. The legal department's assessment... they say that if we investigate further, the amounts involved in issuing false invoices and tax evasion are enormous, and it might... might involve criminal liability. The main person in charge... might have to bear..."

He didn't finish speaking, but his meaning was clear.

Zheng Dong felt the cotton ball in his chest turn into ice, cold and hard, making him almost suffocate. He opened his mouth and gasped for air, white mist rising from his oxygen mask.

"And," Xiao Wang's voice lowered, filled with despair, "The shareholders' meeting... chaired by President Qian, just ended. The resolution... to cut off all business in S Province and completely withdraw. Other stores nationwide that are severely unprofitable will be closed immediately. The remaining ones... will be evaluated to decide whether to retain them. Headquarters... headquarters may also need to lay off staff and streamline its structure..."

Zheng Dong closed his eyes. This time, he kept them closed for a long time.

The ward was eerily quiet. The only sounds were the beeping of the monitor and his heavy, labored breathing.

"Anything else?" he asked, his voice so soft it was almost inaudible.

Xiao Wang hesitated for a moment, then pulled out a piece of paper from the bottom of the folder. It was a simple printed document titled "Letter of Intent for Equity Transfer".

"President Sun... Mr. Sun, the Shareholder Sun, has contacted a buyer who wants to acquire all of his shares, as well as... the shares held by several of his minority shareholders. The buyer is... an investment company under the Yunchuan Group. The offer is... only 30% of the market value."

Yunchuan Group.

Zheng Dong had never heard of it. That's not important. What's important is 30%. When he introduced Sun as Shareholder Sun, what was the share price? Did it increase tenfold? Twentyfold? Now, he's selling off 30%. Like selling scrap.

"President Qian... President Qian asked me to ask for your opinion," Xiao Wang said softly.

Opinions? What opinions could he possibly have? The company wasn't his anymore. It hadn't been from the moment he lay in that hospital bed. The shareholders would decide for themselves how to divide this corpse, how to cut off the last bit of flesh that could still be sold before it rotted away.

"Let them... decide for themselves," Zheng Dong said, each word spoken with utmost effort.

Xiao Wang looked at him with a complex expression—a mixture of reluctance, sympathy, and a sense of relief—finally, he wouldn't have to relay these bad news anymore. He closed the folder and said softly, "Chairman Zheng, you... please get some rest. The company President Qian."

He left and gently closed the door behind him.

His wife came over, took Zheng Dong's hand, and tears fell again, dripping onto the back of his hand, hot and wet. "Old Zheng, let's quit, okay? Let's give up the company, let's give up the money, let's go home, I'll take care of you, let's live a good life, alright?"

Zheng Dong didn't answer. He looked at the ceiling, at the rectangular ceiling light.

He recalled the day his first shop opened many years ago. It was a sunny day like this too. The shop was small, thirty square meters, with four tables. He was wearing a faded shirt, standing behind the stove, frantically cooking. His wife—who was his girlfriend at the time—was in front, greeting customers, collecting money, and wiping tables.

Business was good that day; the restaurant was packed. An old man finished his braised pork, wiped his mouth, and said, "Young man, the pork is very well cooked, really good." He was overjoyed, feeling like he had the whole world in his hands.

Later, the store grew bigger and bigger, and he made more and more money. He bought a car, a house, brought his parents to the city, and sent his son to study abroad. Standing on the stage to accept an award and give an interview, he said, "Freshly made is the root of Dongbei." When he said that, he meant it. At least at that time, he meant it.

When did it change?

Was it when we were building a central kitchen? When we were bringing in capital for rapid expansion? When we were using pre-packaged meals to control costs? Or... when we first printed "Fresh ingredients, cooked to order" on a brochure, knowing deep down that we couldn't deliver?

He didn't know. It seemed like little by little, without him realizing it, he slid down. By the time he realized it, he was already in an abyss, surrounded by darkness, and every inch he climbed upwards was like having a layer of skin peeled off.

"I want to watch TV," he suddenly said.

The wife paused for a moment, then said, "The doctor said no..."

"Open it." Zheng Dong insisted, his voice not loud, but carrying an undeniable force.

After hesitating for a long time, the wife picked up the remote control and turned on the TV on the wall, turning down the volume.

This is a local news channel, broadcasting its midday news. The female anchor speaks clearly and clearly, "... Continuing to follow the latest developments in the Dongbei incident. This morning, our reporter learned from the market supervision department that the joint inspection of Dongbei Catering is still ongoing, and several stores have already been ordered to suspend operations for rectification. In addition, the tax department has also intervened in the investigation..."

The scene shifts to the street, to the entrance of a Dongbei store, its roller shutter closed and sealed with a white tape. Several passersby walk by, pointing and whispering.

The camera shifts to another shop; the sign is still there, but the lights are off inside, and the tables and chairs are upside down. A sign on the door reads "Temporarily Closed."

The scene shifts back to the studio, where a stack of documents sits in front of the anchor. "Our station has also exclusively learned that some shareholders of Dongbei Catering are seeking to transfer their shares, with the buyer suspected to be Yunchuan Group, which has been active in the capital market recently. Industry insiders analyze that Dongbei's brand value has shrunk significantly, and this transaction may be a 'bargain sale'..."

Zheng Dong stared intently at the screen, his eyes unblinking.

He watched as his twenty years of hard work were reduced to a fleeting few seconds of footage in the news, reduced to a "dirt cheap" price, reduced to fodder for casual conversation, and reduced to a negative example in industry textbooks.

The ice in his chest cracked. The cracks spread until it shattered into powder. The powder seeped into his blood, flowing throughout his body, making his teeth chatter from the cold.

His wife hurriedly turned off the TV: "I don't want to watch anymore! Old Zheng, please don't do this..."

Zheng Dong didn't move. He was still staring at the now-black screen, as if he were staring at his own grave.

After a long while, he slowly turned his head and looked at his wife. His eyes were empty, showing nothing.

"My phone," he said.

His wife handed him the phone with the cracked screen. With trembling fingers, Zheng Dong unlocked it, opened his contacts, and found a name: Director Liu. The distant relative of the N Province Political and Legal Affairs Commission, the one who helped him arrange the cross-province arrest.

The phone rang for a long time before being answered.

"Hello?" Director Liu's voice was hesitant, and the background noise was very quiet.

"Director Liu, it's me, Zheng Dong."

"... Xiao Zheng," Director Liu said somewhat distantly, "Are you feeling any better?"

"Much better," Zheng Dong said, his voice unusually calm. "Thank you for your help last time. Although... it didn't work out."

"Well, that matter... it's all in the past." Director Liu coughed lightly. "Don't dwell on it; getting better is the most important thing now."

"Um." Zheng Dong paused, "Director Liu, I'd like to ask you for another favor."

"... you say."

"Help me arrange a meeting with someone, Lin Feng. I want to meet him, have a meal, and apologize to him in person."

There was a few seconds of silence on the other end of the phone.

"Xiao Zheng, what's wrong with you...?"

"A loss is a loss." Zheng Dong interrupted him, his voice still calm, but something was crumbling beneath that calm. "I accept it. You help me make the connection, and I'll handle the rest myself."

Silence again. Longer still.

"... Okay. I'll give it a try. But you have to promise me you'll speak properly and stop causing trouble. The fact that they're even meeting you is a favor to you and to me."

"I understand. Thank you, Director Liu."

The call ended.

Zheng Dong tossed his phone aside as if it were a piece of burning coal.

His wife looked at him, tears welling up again. "Old Zheng, what are you trying to do...?"

Zheng Dong didn't look at her, he just stared at the ceiling. He stared for a long time, then slowly raised his hand and pointed to the water glass on the bedside table.

His wife quickly held the glass of water to his lips, guiding the straw. Zheng Dong took a small sip; the cool water slid down his burning throat, bringing brief relief.

He lay back down and closed his eyes.

"Help me... call a nurse," he said.

"What's wrong? Are you feeling unwell?"

"Call."

The wife pressed the call button. The nurse came in quickly.

"Excuse me," Zheng Dong opened his eyes, looking at the nurse, the last glimmer of light in his eyes gone, "Could you... raise the bed a little? And give me... a mirror."

The nurse looked at his wife with a puzzled expression, and his wife nodded. The nurse raised the head of the bed a little higher, then found a small mirror and handed it to Zheng Dong.

Zheng Dong took the mirror and looked at the person in it.

His face was ashen, his eyes sunken, his lips chapped, and his hair lay disheveled on his forehead. In just a few days, he looked ten years older. No, twenty.

He looked into his eyes in the mirror. Those eyes that had once been full of ambition, calculation, and defiance. Now, there was nothing in them. Only desolation.

He looked at it for a long time, then put the mirror down.

"Xiao Wang," he said, his voice soft but clear.

The wife leaned closer to listen.

"Help me... record a video." Zheng Dong said, each word spoken slowly and forcefully, as if giving his last words. "I apologize. Say to the camera, I was wrong, Dongbei was wrong. I used pre-made food, I lied. I mismanaged, I deserve it. I resign, I'll never do it again."

He paused, then added at the end:

"Sorry."

After saying those three words, he seemed to have all his strength drained away, collapsed onto the pillow, and closed his eyes.

Tears finally slid down from the corners of her eyes, hot and flowing down her temples and into the white hair at her temples.