Chapter Thirteen

As expected, he had a fever again. Tu Qin looked at Xie Zhailing’s reddened eyes and nodded. “You do have a fever, right? I still have some vitamin C and fever patches here. Want some?”

“No need, I’ve bought everything else,” Xie Zhailing cleared his throat. “Thank you.”

“Wait a moment.” Tu Qin stepped back, gently closed the door, and went to the storage cabinet to fetch the medicine.

As she grabbed the medicine, Tu Qin pondered over Xie Zhailing’s snug coffee-colored sweater. Perhaps people with low body fat have weaker immunity, which is why he often caught fevers.

After handing him a box of ibuprofen, she couldn’t help but glance at his face again. She felt this fever seemed worse than the couple of times she had seen before, so she added, “If the fever gets too severe, it’s better to go to the hospital.”

Xie Zhailing reacted slowly, pausing before nodding and thanking her again, “Thank you.”

She wasn’t sure if he fully understood.

Poor guy.

Tu Qin smiled softly, and before closing the door, she said, “Drink plenty of hot water.”

Xie Zhailing responded sluggishly. After the door shut, he said “thank you” once more.

He often had fevers. While others’ anxiety might manifest as vomiting or shortness of breath, his body had a temperature switch. Any anxious feeling could flip it on, and quietly, he’d start to run a fever.

But it never got too high—around 38 degrees Celsius. He wouldn’t feel extremely unwell, just tired and weak.

This time was different. He spent the whole night trapped in nightmares, dreaming of the ginkgo tree downstairs, the figure of a ten-year-old child running away with a backpack, and the persistent imagined cries of a child echoing in his mind. He woke drenched two or three times. Barely able to hold on, he searched for a nearby pharmacy still open. When he finally left, his legs were like noodles, and climbing two flights of stairs forced him to stop four or five times.

At home, ready to take medicine, he realized there was no fever reducer in the bag. His fevered brain slowly recalled that the pharmacist had said many people were catching colds recently, and with the workers off for the New Year holiday, the store hadn’t restocked the fever medicine yet.

His first thought was to check if the other two rooms had medicine. Opening one door, he remembered the other two were an unfinished shell and a worse rental, hardly places where medicine would be kept.

Dazed, he tried to knock on Tu Qin’s door next door. He was nearly there when he suddenly recalled it was the middle of the night—not a time a young person would be awake during the holidays—so he turned back.

He felt dizzy, thinking one more turn and he’d collapse.

Not wearing a coat, the marble floor was unforgiving. Falling could mean death or freezing.

But no, that would scare the neighbors.

No, that would affect property values.

Xie Zhailing’s mind was completely fogged. When door 203 suddenly opened, he thought he was hallucinating.

But it probably wasn’t.

His hallucinations didn’t have such vivid imagination, nor would he picture someone bundled up on New Year’s Eve now standing there in a fuzzy long dress covered with strawberries—and fuzzy mangoes stuck on top of the strawberries.

A dress utterly unreal.

Even someone as imaginative as him, who liked to create freely, wouldn’t think of such a combination.

So, during the ensuing conversation, his eyes were filled with strawberries topped with mangoes. He had no idea what he said, but ended up with another box of ibuprofen in his hand.

A new one.

Did he thank her?

Did he pay for the medicine?

Why would mangoes be paired with strawberries?

Had the fever fried his brain?

Behind him, the door of 203 beeped open again. Tu Qin peeked out.

He had stood there too long; her door’s security alarm must have gone off.

That feature was quite good; the studio should install one.

Not sure if it was expensive. Before the New Year, he had bought a batch of soil from the mine, and now he was broke again.

“…Do you need me to take you to the hospital? Or call your friend for you?” Tu Qin asked cautiously.

His eyes were unfocused.

“No…” Xie Zhailing seemed to open his mouth but forgot what to say. After a moment, he asked, “How much is the medicine?”

Tu Qin: “…Wait a second.”

She checked her purchase record and glanced at it. “19.7. You can give me 18 yuan. I bought it during a discount, so it’s a bit cheaper.”

“Mm.” Xie Zhailing mumbled vaguely, took his phone, and after a minute, transferred the money to Tu Qin via WeChat, adding, “Thank you.”

“No need to thank me.” Tu Qin felt that if she didn’t say those three words, he might keep thanking her forever.

“Well, I…” Xie Zhailing pointed at 201. “I’m going in.”

Tu Qin didn’t know how to respond. With someone fevered and confused, and someone else who couldn’t find words beyond “thank you,” she just watched him enter, then set the door’s security sensitivity to high. That way, if he left or there was movement in the corridor, the monitor would alert her immediately.

After Xie Zhailing went inside, he didn’t come out again. Tu Qin finished showering, ate breakfast, and after Yao Lingling boarded her plane, she slept. When she woke again, it was past six in the evening, and the sky had darkened.

Yao Lingling sent several messages: landed, met the person picking her up, arrived at the hotel, eating.

Tu Qin replied with a simple “awake.”

Yao Lingling instantly responded: “Why don’t you come live in Africa? No jet lag at all.”

Tu Qin sent a satisfied cat emoji.

No movement from next door.

Tu Qin made herself a bowl of soup rice cakes, watched an episode of a newly updated British drama, scrolled through half an hour of comments on a serialized novel, then began writing her drafts.

Her serialized infinite-world novel had just entered a new world. The opening, which usually took two days to finish, went remarkably smoothly today. She completed 10,000 characters before 2 a.m.

Rarely had she felt so eager for more.

Outside was very quiet.

The security monitor didn’t alarm.

The accumulated snow had begun to melt, dripping like rain, with occasional heavy chunks of icy snow crashing to the ground.

Tu Qin hesitated between sleeping and Pilates for a split second, then opened her email.

Two new messages awaited in her work inbox. One was from Zhang Qin, a meticulous veteran screenwriter with nearly thirty years in the industry, requesting further revisions on a script.

Tu Qin respected her greatly—Zhang’s assignments were always clear and precise. The email’s revision notes were straightforward, never vague or ambiguous, often pointing out specific issues like character dialogue mismatches or regional speech patterns.

Tu Qin read the email, highlighted key points, and added it to her to-do list.

The other email was also from Zhang Qin, but without a subject line.

This was unlike the no-nonsense chief screenwriter.

Curious, Tu Qin opened it.

It was an invitation for her next project.

She read the body with pursed lips, noting the email had been sent just ten minutes ago.

Late nights were normal for writers.

Tu Qin immediately called. The other end answered quickly, voice cheerful: “I just got your read receipt and you called right away. Have you read the email? Thoughts?”

“Is this project for a web series?” Tu Qin asked the question that mattered most to her.

She had only seen the outline and part of the first episode draft—a century-old family’s rise and fall—more suited to a large-scale TV drama than a web series.

“So no, it’s not a web series,” Zhang Qin laughed. “It’s for a major satellite channel. This year there’s a series promoting national intangible cultural heritage crafts. This is a key investment project. Filming is planned for mid-next year, and the script must be finalized before then. The workload for adaptation is huge. I’m only an assistant here, can’t keep up. The director asked me to recommend someone else. Interested?”

“The pay won’t be much,” Zhang Qin added. “And the cycle will be long. Workload is more than twice what you’re handling now. It’s a tough gig, but a great stepping stone.”

This was the chance Tu Qin had dreamed of.

She didn’t aspire to be a top screenwriter or a leading online author. She had no grand ambitions—she just needed steady work.

Online writing was a feast-or-famine gig. She would finish the stories she wanted to write, but when her creative drive faded, sitting at the computer all day unable to produce a word, she’d be unemployed.

Web series screenwriters were expendable. The cycles were short with little time for polishing scripts. Accumulating experience was difficult. Right now, she was able to hop from one crew to another because she was young and inexperienced, filling in gaps wherever needed.

But as she aged and gained seniority, it would be harder to join teams. Her experience with mediocre web series wouldn’t qualify her to be a lead screenwriter, so unemployment was looming.

Tu Qin was well aware of the need to plan ahead. Even if this opportunity didn’t pay, she’d take it.

She stifled the tremor of excitement in her voice, steadied her breath, and nodded: “I’m definitely interested. Thank you, Sister Zhang.”

“Then keep the afternoon of the eighth free,” Zhang Qin said briskly, as usual. “The key creatives have a meeting that day. I’ll bring you along.”

“Okay!” Tu Qin responded quickly, thanking her again.

“The director’s tough, so brace yourself,” Zhang Qin laughed and hung up.

Tu Qin’s next “thank you, Sister Zhang” got stuck in her throat. She waved her fists twice at the now-dead call, casually tucked the hem of her nightdress, leaned against the wall, and did a two-minute handstand before sitting back down. She looked at her reflection on the sleeping computer screen and grinned.

Modestly, she took out her phone and sent Yao Lingling a message: “Honey, I’m joining a major satellite channel drama team this year.”

Yao Lingling instantly replied: “Holy shit.”

Tu Qin was thrilled, sent a “Sister, I’m going to work” emoji, and locked her screen.

Overexcited, she tried revising the script but only managed two lines before glancing again at Zhang Qin’s second email and rereading the scant materials attached.

Half an hour later, it was three a.m.

The excitement had faded. Tu Qin debated whether to have some dumplings as a midnight snack when her phone’s security alarm went off, showing movement outside.

Startled, she nearly forgot someone lived opposite. She grabbed her phone and checked the security footage playback.

No one was there—just the hallway sensor light flickering, probably someone going upstairs.

Likely a sensitivity setting too high.

Xie Zhailing hadn’t left since.

Nor had she.

But her home was cozy, well stocked with food, and heated with underfloor heating. Opposite, Xie Zhailing probably wasn’t so lucky.

But there was nothing to be done.

Just a little pitiful.

The phone alarm went off again.

Tu Qin sighed and opened the security monitor to lower the sensitivity.

But this time it wasn’t a false alarm.

The footage showed Xie Zhailing opening the door, putting on a coat and hat. Before going downstairs, he glanced at the 203 monitor.

Tu Qin hesitated, but didn’t open her door.

Whether he was feeling better or couldn’t endure and was going to the hospital was none of her concern. He seemed lucid and walked steadily.

He hadn’t asked for her help.

Tu Qin finally decided to make herself a bowl of dumplings—the kind she loved, with green onion, soy sauce, and vinegar broth, steaming hot.

By the time she finished, it was half past three. The underfloor heating was turned up high, and she was sweating. She took a cup of hot tea and went to the balcony to cool off.

Her balcony had a beautiful view, especially in autumn. She loved the aged ginkgo tree there and worried the heavy snow would damage it, so these past days she often checked the tree for lingering snow.

Someone was under the tree.

From her second-floor vantage point, she could see clearly.

It was Xie Zhailing.

At half past three in the morning.

Feverish during the day, now out in the cold, leaning his head against the tree.

…Has the fever made him crazy?