Chapter 202: Dosage and Jet Lag

The windshield wipers swung at maximum frequency, still unable to clear the curtain of water from the glass. The red congestion line on the navigation screen stretched like a solidified wound, spreading from the Third Ring overpass all the way to the entrance of City Third Hospital. Lin Chen switched the AC to defrost, cold air blowing directly against his cheeks. The sharp pain in his left foot had dulled into a persistent numbness; every time he pressed the clutch, he had to brace his heel firmly against the floorboard and rely on his thigh muscles to apply the force. Time ticked by. 14:58. Less than twenty minutes remained of the forty-minute grace period Director Li had given him.

He didn't honk. He just stared at the taillights ahead, running through the mental workflow: three minutes to collect the fax at the coordination clinic, five minutes for the doctor to verify his identity, ten minutes for consent and consultation, another five minutes to stamp and fax the receipt back, then a dozen-plus minutes to return to the company. There were still too many variables, but at least this was not the county hospital one hundred forty kilometers away. He rolled down the window, and the damp smell of earth mixed with exhaust fumes pressed into the cabin. The rain in Qingshi Village back in 1992 had carried the same scent, only back then there was no navigation, no KPIs, just his mother brewing medicine in the leaky main hall. Two timelines overlapped inside the car, only to be severed again and again by the rhythmic sweep of the wipers.

Several tiles had peeled off the exterior wall of City Third Hospital's outpatient building, exposing the dull gray cement beneath. He parked, planted his right foot on the ground first, let his left foot hover and tap lightly, and used the door frame for support to stand. A long line formed at the registration window, but he did not go there. He went straight to the neurology coordination clinic and presented his ID, the county hospital medical-record number, and the fax reference. The nurse glanced at the clock: “Lin Xing's family? The county hospital's informed-consent form just came through. The doctor is in Room 2. Hurry in—the fax-back window closes before four.”

He pushed the door open, and the sharp smell of disinfectant hit him. The doctor on duty was checking the faxed pages and didn't look up: “Sit. The report came from the county hospital. Discharge frequency in the left temporal lobe has increased; the blood concentration of sodium valproate is insufficient, so they recommend adding levetiracetam. We only witness the coordination and explain the risks here; the medicine will still be dispensed in the county. The new medication may cause drowsiness or rashes, and in rare cases, mood swings. Once you sign, we stamp the receipt and fax it back.”

Lin Chen sat down and took the photocopied informed consent form. The paper was thin, the clauses densely packed, the fax edges gray with noise. He read it word by word, skipping not a single line. “Adverse reaction rate approximately 3%-5%”, “Regular monitoring of liver and kidney function required”, “Do not stop medication abruptly”. He picked up a pen and wrote in the "Family Opinion" column: “Risks acknowledged, agree to the medication plan. Will strictly follow medical advice to record seizure frequency and side effects, with weekly follow-ups.” His handwriting was neat, the pen strokes pressing deep into the paper.

The doctor looked up, took the form back: “Your brother's condition can't be delayed. If a surgical evaluation is needed, he'll have to come to the provincial capital. Since you're here, you should ask in advance about the green-channel referral process.”

"Understood." Lin Chen handed the form back. "Please note on the receipt after faxing it back that the county should dispense two weeks of medication first, with payment handled at their window."

The doctor nodded and asked the nurse to take it to the fax room, stamp it, and send it back. Lin Chen stood at the doorway waiting. The fluorescent tubes in the corridor hummed, and his footsteps echoed in the empty hallway. His phone vibrated. Wang Guiying had sent a photo: Xiaoman leaning against the headboard in the county hospital ward, holding a pencil and drawing circles on a scrap of paper. The second photo showed the crooked stars he had just drawn, with pinyin written beside them: ge ge de xing xing.

Lin Chen stared at the screen for three seconds, saved the photos to his album, and replied: “The new medicine may make him sleepy. Take it exactly as the doctor said. Don't be afraid. When I get back, I'll take him to the provincial capital to see real ones.”

Wang Guiying replied quickly: “Got it. Once the county receives the receipt, we'll get the medicine. Hurry back to the company.”

The nurse came out of the fax room and handed him the stamped receipt: “It has been faxed back successfully. The county hospital confirmed receipt.”

Back in the car, the time was 15:23. He started the engine, and the wipers cleared his vision once more. As his left foot pressed the clutch, the muscle twitched uncontrollably. He took a deep breath, shifted into gear, and merged onto the main road.

The underground garage of the company building was still cold. He parked and walked briskly to the elevator. The metal doors reflected his soaked pant legs and his slightly uneven gait. He pressed the floor button and pulled the mistake notebook from his pocket. Flipping to the latest page, he added a new entry: “2014.05.25 15:40 Hospital signing completed. Variables: new drug side effects / funding gap / time window. Solution: short-term drug control, mid-term provincial evaluation, long-term fund reserve. Bottom line: condition does not worsen, assessment not missed.”

The elevator doors slid open. He walked to Director Li's office, knocked, and entered.

Director Li was reviewing reports. Seeing him come in, he pointed to the documents on the desk: "Liability waiver and handover checklist. Sign them. During your assessment period, domestic operations will be temporarily handled by Engineer Zhang. You'll only be responsible for technical liaison and weekly reports. Remember, this trip to Silicon Valley isn't a vacation. Headquarters wants to see if you can bring back their architectural thinking and implement it in our business. Don't embarrass me."

"Understood." Lin Chen picked up a pen and signed in the designated spot. Date: May 25, 2014. The pen tip scratched softly against the paper. One clause in the agreement was bolded: “Business losses caused by personal reasons during the assessment period will result in corresponding performance deductions borne by the individual.” He glanced at it, didn't pause, and finished signing.

Director Li closed the folder, his tone softening slightly: "Flight and hotel details have been sent to your email. Early flight tomorrow to San Francisco. Adjusting to the time difference will take time; rest for half a day after landing, then head straight to the campus in the afternoon. Email me anytime if issues come up."

"Received." Lin Chen stood up. "Handover documents have been synced to the shared drive. Emergency contacts are set. I will send progress briefs daily before 22:00 during the assessment."

Director Li nodded and waved him out.

Back at his desk, he opened his email. The attachments contained the itinerary, a copy of his visa, and a thick Silicon Valley Technical Assessment Manual. He skimmed through it quickly, highlighting the AI lab visit schedule and several internal technical sharing sessions. Then, he opened his drawer and took out a hardcover notebook. The cover read "Mistake Notebook," but inside it held far more than just code and architecture.

He flipped to a blank page and began listing: 1. Passport/visa/flight ticket printouts 2. Power adapter/spare power bank/external hard drive 3. Xiao Man's medication log (photo backup) 4. Assessment focus: distributed training clusters / automated data cleaning solutions / implementation paths for cutting-edge papers

Finished, he closed the notebook. Outside, the rain had stopped. A crack opened in the clouds, letting through a dim, yellowish light. He shut down his computer, unplugged the power cord, and cleared his desk. Half a pack of Hongtashan cigarettes remained; he didn't take them. He only took the mistake notebook and his phone.

Stepping out of the building, the evening wind carried the chill of the recent rain. He stood by the curb waiting for a car, his left foot still numb, but his breathing steady. He knew that after tomorrow, twelve hours of time difference and two entirely different rhythms would tear him in half. One half would be servers and algorithms across the Pacific; the other, EEGs and medicine bottles in a county hospital ward.

But he didn't hesitate. The era offered no pause button, only the right to choose. He opened the car door and got in.

The phone screen lit up. A push notification from a tech forum appeared: “Google Brain internal report leaked: Early evolution of large-scale GPU clusters and deep learning frameworks, computing bottlenecks are being broken.” He opened the summary, his gaze stopping at the final line: “When data cleaning efficiency and model training scale form a positive feedback loop, traditional business logic will be reconstructed.”

He stared at that line, his fingers tapping lightly against the screen twice. Data cleaning. He thought of the eight thousand chaotic spreadsheets Old Zhao had sent, of the V3.0 script he'd written through the night, of the duplicate rows and garbled text manually stripped away. It turned out those tedious characters were already transforming into another language across the ocean.

He turned off the screen and leaned back against the seat. Outside the window, streetlights swept past one by one, like elongated lines of code.

Tomorrow, San Francisco. Tonight, he needed to sleep for four hours.