BURN Chapter 11

Translator: Abo Dammen

Of course, they’d talk. Since Professor Fu had sought him out, there was no way Chi Zhao would refuse.

The countryside at night was pitch black, with almost no light. The two of them sat on a small dirt mound by the roadside, facing a vast stretch of farmland. A few villagers were busy working in the dark.

Fu Nan’an could only hear faint rustling sounds. He tapped the ground with his cane. “Are there people ahead?”

“Yeah, there’s farmland in front of us. They seem to be laying down plastic mulch,” Chi Zhao, having grown up in the countryside, was familiar with these things. He squinted into the distance and explained to Fu Nan’an, “Plastic mulch is a kind of plastic film laid over the soil. It’s cold here, so crops planted in spring or autumn usually need the mulch to protect them from frost and retain moisture. Otherwise, the plants won’t sprout, and there won’t be enough water.”

“I think I learned about this in school, but I’ve never seen it in person,” Fu Nan’an smiled, naturally continuing the conversation. He broke the roasted sweet potato in his hand and handed half to Chi Zhao, adopting a humble, curious tone. “So crops planted at other seasons don’t need the mulch?”

“That’s right,” Chi Zhao nodded. He was more than happy to explain when Fu Nan’an asked questions. He took a bite of the steaming sweet potato and mumbled, “For example, late rice planted in June or July—if you cover it with mulch, it’ll suffocate. Farming is all about what’s suitable and what’s not.”

“You seem to know a lot,” Fu Nan’an’s smile deepened. He tilted his head slightly in Chi Zhao’s direction. “So, as a clinical student, do you think it’s suitable or not for you to be studying psychology textbooks?”

At this point, Chi Zhao understood where the conversation was heading. He lowered his head unconsciously, staring at the half-eaten sweet potato in his hand. “You already knew, didn’t you?”

“Knew what?” Fu Nan’an’s expression softened as he asked, “About the bet you made with Chen Kaiji? Or about him saying clinical students shouldn’t be rotating in the psychology department?”

So he knew everything. There wasn’t much between it to begin with. Chi Zhao didn’t know what to say, but then Fu Nan’an added, “Do you also think I’m treating clinical students differently by not quizzing you?”

Professor Fu’s sensitivity to emotions was too sharp, nothing could be hidden from him. Chi Zhao opened his mouth to deny it, but Fu Nan’an cut him off. “You’re right. I am treating you differently.”

Chi Zhao’s hand stiffened slightly.

“But not in the way you think,” Fu Nan’an continued. “Just like you said, crops planted in spring and autumn need mulch, but summer crops don’t. If I treated you all the same, that would be my mistake.”

Chi Zhao blinked, unable to argue. Fu Nan’an’s fingers traced the cane as his tone grew more serious. “Actually, it was my suggestion to have clinical students rotate through psychology. Do you know why we encourage cross-disciplinary rotations?”

Chi Zhao shook his head silently. Fu Nan’an’s voice was steady. “I come from a clinical background, so I understand the differences and connections between the two fields. I also trust your abilities. The purpose of bringing you here is to learn a way of thinking—to see problems from a psychological perspective. That’s our goal. If you could become psychologists after just a few months of rotation, what would be the point of psychology students studying for four years?”

Chi Zhao understood his logic. He had been too hard on himself before, but hearing Fu Nan’an explain it so clearly helped him see things differently. While his mind grasped the reasoning, his heart still felt a bit awkward and embarrassed. Although he hadn’t said it outright, he had secretly resented Fu Nan’an for treating clinical students differently.

Chi Zhao stared at the uneaten sweet potato, struggling to apologize. “Professor Fu, I…”

Before he could finish, Fu Nan’an spoke first. “I’m sorry.”

Chi Zhao was stunned. “Why are you apologizing?” Shouldn’t he be the one apologizing for misunderstanding?

“I’m not saying this to blame you,” Fu Nan’an smiled. “I just wanted to explain. I should have done this earlier. I didn’t realize you’d feel this way… It must have been hard for you, right?”

It had been hard, but Chi Zhao hadn’t even realized it until Fu Nan’an asked. He was afraid of not being good enough and of not being recognized. He was used to keeping everything to himself and hadn’t expected someone to care so much about his feelings. Fu Nan’an’s tone was so gentle, without a hint of reproach.

The moon was full, the stars sparse, and the night was clear. The countryside air carried a faint grassy scent, much like Professor Fu himself—refreshing and intoxicating. The sweet potato in his hand was warm, and so was his heart. Even the darkness seemed brighter.

“Still feeling down?” Fu Nan’an couldn’t see his expression, so when Chi Zhao remained silent, his voice softened further, as if coaxing a child. “What should we do then? Should I let you punch me a couple of times to vent?” He even extended his arm as if offering it.

Chi Zhao couldn’t help but laugh, waving his hand. “No, no, that’s not what I want.” Only then did Fu Nan’an withdraw his arm, returning to his usual relaxed demeanor. “You’re capable. Don’t doubt yourself.”

They sat by the field a while longer, only returning to the clinic’s courtyard after Chi Zhao finished the sweet potato. The fire in the yard was still crackling, and the sweet taste lingered on his tongue. Chi Zhao’s gaze followed Fu Nan’an, feeling that he was brighter and more dazzling than the flames beside him.

After enduring the hardships of his childhood and the discrimination of his teenage years, Fu Nan’an was the first person to gently explain things to him, to reason with him, and to carefully tend to emotions he hadn’t even realized he had.

Chi Zhao thought, Thank you for giving me this warmth.

Professor Fu did more than just talk to Chi Zhao. He also spoke with Chen Kaiji and explained his thoughts to all the interns. Professor Fu was never afraid to admit his mistakes. Everyone makes mistakes and has moments of oversight—there’s no shame in it. During the morning meeting, he sincerely apologized to all the clinical students for not considering their feelings.

Chen Kaiji privately apologized to Chi Zhao. Whether it was sincere or out of respect for Fu Nan’an didn’t matter. Chi Zhao had figured out what he needed to do and no longer cared about Chen Kaiji’s opinions.

All of this was done by the next morning. After an early video conference for a work summary, everyone returned to their busy tasks.

When they had arrived at Xiaozhai Village the previous night, it was already dark, so they had only explored the area around the clinic. But during the day, when they actually started working, they realized how difficult it was to promote mental health awareness in rural areas.

When the villagers heard that doctors from the provincial capital were coming for a free clinic, the clinic’s entrance was quickly crowded. But when they learned it was the psychology department, most of them left disappointed.

“What’s the point of psychology? What a waste of time!”

“Exactly, it’s just about what’s in your head. Why do we need doctors for that?”

“We’re not crazy! You’re the ones who are nuts!”

This was a common mindset. Many people either didn’t realize that mental health could be an issue. They equated psychological disorders with “madness” or “insanity.” Psychology was a new field, and there was still a long way to go. In the entire morning, only a handful of people came for consultations. One person who did show up was actually asking when the ophthalmologist would arrive, wanting to schedule cataract surgery for their father.

It was indeed disheartening.

Even though Chi Zhao was a clinical student, working alongside the psychology team made him feel the frustration of not being understood. Their road ahead was long and challenging.

The department’s doctors were disheartened, but the team leader and senior professors naturally stepped in. After the day’s work, Fu Nan’an suggested they all have a hot pot dinner to reward themselves for their hard work.

In the biting cold of winter, nothing was more comforting than a steaming hot pot. The suggestion was met with enthusiastic agreement, and everyone quickly got to work.

“I’ll wash the pot.”

“I’ll start the fire.”

“I’ll gather firewood.”

The tasks were quickly assigned, leaving only Chi Zhao and Chen Kaiji without anything to do.

“You two… go buy groceries?” a senior sister suggested.

Sometimes, the more you don’t want something to happen, the more it does. Chi Zhao had no choice but to nod. “Alright.”

After asking the villagers where to buy groceries, Chi Zhao and Chen Kaiji left the clinic together.

Their relationship had always been strained, so neither of them tried to make conversation. They walked in silence.

The grocery spot wasn’t far from the clinic, but selecting the ingredients took a while. They waited for the others to send their requests, and by the time they had everything, almost an hour had passed.

By the time they headed back, it was dark.

The countryside night was unlike the city’s. The stars were bright and numerous, but the darkness was absolute.

There were no streetlights, so they used their phone flashlights to light the way. They walked in silence, but just as they were about to reach the clinic, Chen Kaiji suddenly let out a cry. “Ah!”

Chi Zhao quickly turned. “What’s wrong?”

“It hurts! It hurts!” Chen Kaiji’s face twisted in pain, his right foot springing off the ground. “It really hurts!”

He hopped forward, unable to put weight on his right foot. Chi Zhao immediately realized what had happened. “Take off your shoe!”

Without waiting for Chen Kaiji to respond, Chi Zhao stepped forward and helped him remove his shoe. Sure enough, Chen Kaiji had stepped on something sharp, and his foot was bleeding, the sock already stained red.

Chen Kaiji grimaced. “It hurts.”

The pain was searing, shooting up his nerves. Chi Zhao quickly knelt down, supporting Chen Kaiji’s ankle with one hand as he removed the shoe. “Try to bear with it. You must have stepped on something. Let me take a look.”

“Chi Zhao…” Chen Kaiji called out uncomfortably. Chi Zhao held his ankle firmly, not looking up. “It’s fine. This is a minor injury. Relax, I’ll take care of it. You’ll be okay soon.”

His words were decisive and confident, exuding the natural sense of security that a doctor could provide to a patient.

Chen Kaiji looked down at Chi Zhao, who was kneeling on the ground, unfazed by the dust and dirt kicked up by the wind. Despite their past conflicts, Chi Zhao treated him without any bias. Remembering the things he had said before, Chen Kaiji suddenly felt a pang of guilt.