Liu Zhengliang knew he had crossed a red line, and nothing he said would matter anymore. Heping Hospital had a kind of obstinacy—it disdained giving excessive explanations. This was both a culture and a tradition: important words only needed to be said once, and you were expected to remember them for life; if you made a critical mistake, there was no use in making excuses. People from different worlds would find even one extra word tiresome. Liu Zhengliang had been steeped in this tradition, and Wang Hao was even more so.
There was no point in saying more.
Liu Zhengliang would probably always remember the disheveled state he was in when he walked out of Director Wang’s office that day. What people called high spirits and boldness actually came from the sense of superiority this institution had given him. Now, Liu Zhengliang had lost it. When he returned to the office, several colleagues, still unaware that things had progressed to this point, greeted him as usual. But when they saw Liu Zhengliang start packing his personal belongings, they fell silent. No one said a word as they watched him calmly carry his things out of the office. In the hallway, the Filial Son and Virtuous Grandson immediately approached him upon seeing him. The Virtuous Grandson was still holding a donkey meat burger, chewing happily.
Liu Zhengliang smiled bitterly and asked, “I didn’t see you two earlier. Did you go out to buy a donkey burger?”
The Filial Son laughed and said, “There’s nothing good to eat around here, and we’ve been stuck here day after day. Even though the saying goes ‘a poor home but a rich road,’ we’re here to seek justice. Who knows how long this will drag on? We have to be frugal.”
Liu Zhengliang replied, “Your wait is over. I’ve been fired by the hospital.”
The Filial Son was startled. “Oh, brother, I’m really sorry about that. So, what about your money?”
Liu Zhengliang couldn’t help but laugh at his question. “I have no money left. If you want to sue, go ahead. I won’t give you a single cent. First, you’ll need to hire a lawyer who understands medicine, then review the medical records, study the surgical plan, identify any human errors during the operation, and even perform an autopsy for pathological analysis. Go on, if you want to defend your rights, defend them. Do you have my ID number? I’ll give it to you. Go ahead, file a civil lawsuit.”
The Virtuous Grandson grew anxious upon hearing this. “Do you not believe we’ll sue you? Do you believe we can sue you until you’re bankrupt?”
Liu Zhengliang responded, “That would be a protracted battle, lasting two or three years. Give it a try. I have nothing left to lose anyway. My only private property is a few tens of thousands in bank savings. Go ahead and sue.”
At first, the Filial Son and Virtuous Grandson didn’t believe him and went to the HR department to inquire, only to find that the “cooked duck had flown away.” The Virtuous Grandson began to complain that his father had outsmarted himself. If they hadn’t made such a big scene and had instead applied subtle pressure privately, they might have been able to squeeze some money out of him. But by killing the goose that laid the golden eggs, they ended up with nothing—the goose was dead, and there were no eggs.
When Liu Zhengliang walked out of Heping Hospital, he felt utterly hopeless. Having lost his job, he thought, I’ve lost all possibility of staying in Beijing. Why were there no pedestrian bridges on Chang’an Avenue? If only there were one. Aunt Tian, that laid-off worker from the Fushun Steel Plant in 1998, did you ever stand on the pedestrian bridge on Fushun’s Dan Dong Road, contemplating whether your life should intersect with the “little coolness” below? There were no pedestrian bridges on Chang’an Avenue, but after crossing one intersection, he found one on Hepingmennei Avenue. He walked up to it and looked down at the bustling traffic below. Then he thought, Why are there no “little coolness” spots within Beijing’s Second Ring Road? Can’t fate just give me an excuse? Why won’t you stop me?Using it as an excuse for himself, Liu Zhengliang hadn’t yet told his girlfriend about the situation. He called her out, and once they were seated, he told her the truth: "I lost my job, and I won’t be able to practice medicine in Beijing anymore."
His girlfriend asked, "So what are your plans?"
Liu Zhengliang couldn’t bring himself to look at her, his eyes fixed on the corner of the table as he said, "I’m not sure yet. The reason I asked you out today was to let you know that if you think it’s not appropriate, we don’t have to see each other anymore. I feel really sorry for you—I’ve wasted so much of your time and disrupted your life plan. I remember you said you had to get married by thirty-three and have a child by thirty-four. Given my current situation, I’m really embarrassed."
As he spoke, Liu Zhengliang waited for her response. What he secretly hoped for most was that she would slap him right away and storm off angrily. Then he could chase after her and stop her. After all, it was just a lost job—his mind was still sharp. How hard could it be to find a higher-paying job? Selling medicine might not be a highly skilled profession, and it wouldn’t carry the prestige of working at Heping Hospital, but earning a million yuan a year wasn’t out of reach. That was real money.
He wanted to know if he still had love, at the very least.
But she began speaking to him with polite detachment: "It’s fine, you should try to look on the bright side. Marriage is about finding the right family, the right partner—it’s like a joint-stock company."
Liu Zhengliang forced a smile and picked up the thread: "Right. Look at me—I’m a partner who’s gone bankrupt and has no technical patents. Starting a business without capital and having to split shares—that’s definitely an unhealthy equity structure and not good for long-term development."
She sensed his displeasure and wanted to admonish him but didn’t want to provoke him. Still, she couldn’t hold back, given her nature: "Let me pay the bill today. You’ll have a lot of expenses ahead."
They had been polite when they met, and now they were parting with mutual respect. Both were respectable people from small towns who had worked their way up. No matter how upset they were, they had to maintain appearances. Look, I’ve become a Beijinger now, a city person. We have to live with dignity—not just physically in the city but spiritually, too, not stuck in some suburban mindset. A clean break, how dignified.
Sometimes, Liu Zhengliang longed for a heart-wrenching love! What did heart-wrenching love mean? It meant an unreasonable woman throwing a tantrum, sitting on the ground crying, grabbing whatever was at hand and hurling it at your face, going to your home and smashing everything to pieces. Cursing: "Give me back my youth, you bastard! Admit it, were you wrong? What did you do wrong? How dare you break up with me? If anyone’s breaking up, it should be me! How dare you dump me! Shameless, explain yourself clearly…"
That was thrilling, that had flavor, that was the fusion of soul and body. Did you think having sex meant love had sublimated, that it was a perfect blend? Love wasn’t love at first sight; it was when no problem could tear you apart, that feeling of ripping off a medicated plaster and taking a layer of skin with it.
She was still too polite, too distant.When he turned to leave after seeing her home, perhaps only Heaven could remember whether Liu Zhengliang had been crying or smiling. If he was crying, it must have been because the dream of building a seemingly happy family had completely shattered; if he was smiling—well, who wouldn’t want a marriage born of love?
Liu Zhengliang glanced back once more at her receding figure, thinking to himself: She needs a marriage, a family, and a man—it hardly matters who.
After breaking up with his girlfriend, Liu Zhengliang spent over another month dragging himself through life in Beijing, revising a thesis at home before handing it off to a junior colleague. He had no idea how to break the news to his family, until one day his grandfather called and said, "Stop putting on airs in Beijing. We already know everything here. If you really can’t make it, come back tomorrow. I’ll make you dumplings."
Chapter 6
That call from the old man finally jolted Liu Zhengliang back to his senses. His grandfather, Liu Yisun, had migrated to Fushun during the "Chuang Guandong" wave and, now in his eighties, was still hale and hearty. The moment Liu Zhengliang stepped into his grandfather’s home—the old house where Li Xianglan had once lived—the aroma of dumplings greeted him. As the dumplings were served, his tears began to fall uncontrollably.
His grandfather said, "What are we lacking back home? I never wanted you working in Beijing anyway. Back in my day, I had as many kids as I could, hoping for a house full of children and grandchildren. But once they grew up, they all scattered. Come back, open a clinic—pull teeth, give IV drips. You’ll make a living. Heaven gave you that brain of yours—your mind is your way out. What’s there to fear?"
With half a dumpling still in his mouth, Liu Zhengliang choked back sobs, his throat too tight to swallow. "Grandpa, I’ve got nothing left. What can I even do? All those years of studying, just to give people IV drips? What was the point of studying then? I should’ve gone to health school from the start."
"Since when do the living let themselves be defeated by piss?" his grandfather retorted. "When I came from Jiangsu to the Northeast looking for my father and couldn’t find him, I had to survive by hauling medicinal herbs from Changbai Mountain to Shenyang. I’ve been chased by wolves deep in the mountains in the dead of night—you think I wasn’t scared? I was, but a real man faces things head-on. You can’t admit fear. Why are Northeasterners so tough? Because we boast our way into it? There was nobody here originally—everyone came from inside the Pass. I’m telling you, it was all built by the bold. Think about it: if you’re strong, everyone respects you; if you’re weak and timid, everyone pushes you around. Face problems head-on, wade through obstacles—what’s the worst that can happen? When I first arrived in Fushun, I observed the people here. They’re like sorghum stalks in late October—dry as cotton inside, but the husk stays tough. They hold on, even if it means bluffing, even if they’re just bluffing themselves. You have to hold on. You have to psych yourself up. This place is too hard—if you don’t steady your own nerves, how will you survive? You, you’ve had it smooth and by-the-book since you were little, never tasted real hardship. This sudden blow has stunned you. What’s there to fear? Come back. If you can’t be a doctor at Heping Hospital, what can’t you do here?"Old Man's words made perfect sense to Liu Zhengliang, yet he had no desire to return. His generation of Fushun natives had been raised with one mantra: study hard, test into universities elsewhere, and never return to this wretched place. It was a paradox—their grandparents had fled famine-stricken regions to settle here, believing this land promised survival; now their fathers urged them to escape through education. Their ancestors came because there were jobs and factories—even without employment, one could farm twenty acres of allocated land. Later, they left because factories collapsed, workers were laid off, and survival meant seeking opportunities elsewhere. Isn't life about finding paths to survive? How many families in Fushun have ancestral graves spanning three generations? Aren't we all descendants of wanderers? When Nurhaci nearly exterminated the Han population in Liaodong, our Fushun ancestors trekked here on foot from Shandong, Jiangsu, Rehe, and Chahar. If they could walk here, why can't we choose to leave? What people call "unwillingness to abandon ancestral land" is just inertia in disguise.
Northeast China had long shed its image of makeshift shacks, horse-drawn sleds, and dog-fur hats. It was no longer the land of wrenches, lathes, and steelworkers either. Concrete forests and glass thickets now stood where asphalt roads hosted Mercedes, BMWs, and Infinitis, while offices hummed with laptops. Superficially modern, yet if you listened closely, familiar echoes remained—the long-distance buses in Fushun still played the northeastern folk duet "Second Sister Wang Yearns for Her Husband."
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