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Novel Catalog
Chapter 4: Questioning Her Medical Skills
“Call 911 first, young lady. This child seems lost. I’ve been shouting for a while, but no one came,” an elderly man said, his voice laced with concern. He seemed afraid that if something went wrong, the blame might fall on the girl.
Wynter acted quickly, untying the little boy’s suit and moving him to a shaded area nearby. “Don’t worry, everyone. I have a medical license,” she reassured them, her tone steady.
As she spoke, she pulled a small foldable medical box from her backpack. When it opened, rows of silver needles and various surgical knives—both long and short—were neatly arranged inside. The sight of the well-organized tools conveyed her expertise.
Wynter checked the boy’s pulse again, her fingers light but precise.
“Stop!” A man in a white coat couldn’t take it any longer. He shouted, his voice stern, “You can’t just give a patient injections like that!”
Ignoring his outburst, Wynter lowered her gaze and focused on the boy. She continued counting his pulse and heart rate, her expression calm and measured.
The man in the white coat sneered, crossing his arms. “I’m Luke Johnson, a student from Sacred Heart Medical University, under Madam Gibson’s guidance. I’m not some ordinary person. You claim to have a medical license? How old are you, exactly?”
Wynter didn’t respond, her focus unwavering as she disinfected the needles with meticulous care.
“I’m talking to you!” Luke’s voice rose, frustration mounting. “Even the old man knows to call 911. Why aren’t you listening?”
Kneeling on one knee, Wynter’s presence became sharp and cold, her voice cutting through the tension. “You want to just wait for 911? Let the clock tick while emergency treatment is delayed? Is that what your mentor taught you?”
Luke’s face flushed with irritation. “Who said to wait? You’re the one delaying treatment now, showing off with needles. Put away your pseudoscience and let me do CPR.”
At his words, Wynter glanced up at him, her gaze icy and unwavering. The calmness in her eyes made Luke falter for a moment.
“CPR?” She asked, almost in disbelief. “He has heatstroke, not a heart problem. What exactly are you trying to do with CPR?” She pressed her fingers gently to the boy’s pulse, her voice now cold and clipped. “You’re incompetent.”
Luke’s eyes widened with anger. “Who are you calling incompetent? Do you have any idea who my mentor is?”
Wynter didn’t bat an eye. “I’m not interested in your mentor,” she replied smoothly, disinfecting the needles. “Move aside.”
Luke’s face was reddening with rage. “Fine. I won’t compete with a traditional medicine fraud like you. His lips are purple—it’s obviously a heart issue…”
Wynter met his gaze without flinching. “Myocardial hypoxia and ischemia can cause purple lips, yes,” she said, her voice chilling. “But so can heatstroke. The difference is in the boy’s stable, moderate pulse, and his dry lips, which indicate prolonged exposure to high temperatures. You didn’t even bother to observe these signs before opening your mouth, and you call yourself a student of Sacred Heart Medical University?”
A few onlookers nodded, one chiming in, “Yes, observing medical signs comes first. I’ve learned that too.”
Others began to whisper. “Seems like this student from Sacred Heart isn’t so impressive after all.”
“I agree,” someone else added. “I trust the girl. She seems professional.”
Humiliated, Luke couldn’t take it anymore. “Fine,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Even if it’s heatstroke, can your little needles cure him? What good are we medical students then?”
Wynter’s eyes turned cold again, her expression unwavering. “You only speak for yourself, not for all medical students. Now, step aside.”
She had no patience for two types of people: those who belittled traditional medicine, and those incompetent doctors who would stand in her way while she worked to save a life.
Luke’s anger flared, but he backed off with a sneer. “Fine. I’ll step aside. Let’s see just how capable this little girl is. If your needles actually save him, I’ll kneel and call you a genius!”
“I’ll be waiting for that ‘genius’,” Wynter replied, her voice steady and confident. She turned back to the boy, her fingers moving with precise, practiced motions as she lifted the needle swiftly into position.
