Licheng.
The Maternal and Child Health Hospital caught in the storm.
Director's office.
Standing in front of a wall of floor-to-ceiling glass, the over fifty-year-old director has one hand in his pocket, the other holding a cigarette, his brows tightly knitted, his white coat immaculate.
The hospital has returned to order.
But public opinion continues to ferment.
The crowd causing trouble at the entrance is gone, yet he can still sense media and reporters lurking in unnoticed corners, like filthy flies.
Right.
And then there are the suddenly awakened public-minded celebrities.
Those damn entertainers.
Despicable bunch.
They're not satisfied making their money and insist on meddling.
Is his the only hospital where medical accidents happen?
The director takes a deep drag on his cigarette. Perhaps due to recent stress, a few new wrinkles have etched onto his forehead. He exhales smoke, looking down at the hospital, calm but quite desolate.
Just like today's weather.
