"Mr. Wellingham, when did he write this letter?"
"You have to open it to know. My memory is dead. I found it when I looked at his file yesterday."
"Thank you," Bruce said. He has not had time to open it. He stuffed it into the inner pocket of his suit jacket. He can feel its weight and thickness with his chest.
He put the unopened letter in his pocket that day and the next day. He patted it from time to time to make sure it was still there. Yes. He didn't open it until he got on the plane back to Seattle.
Covered with large and swollen clouds. Although it was bitterly cold outside, the sunlight came in through the windows and warmed the cabin.
Bruce flew home at an altitude of 30,000 feet above the ground. The farther he is from Boston, the more profound his memories of Dr. Harvey. How can one feel empty and heavy at the same time? He felt that his weight might force the plane to leave the sky.
Through the window, he saw that the mottled land was disappearing. He tapped the envelope again. He finally felt that he was ready to open it and read the last few words that Dr. Harvey intended him to read. will never.
The size of the envelope is legal. This paper is very thick, like fabric. Dr. Harvey admired the fixation.
Bruce carefully separated the envelope from the pocket at the bottom of the envelope, and he pulled the letter out and opened it. There are at least eight thick sheets of fixed paper, all blank. Placed in the middle of the neat pile of paper is a cashier's check for 100,000 U.S. dollars, dated to the day of Dr. Harvey's death, with Dr. Harvey's careful and neat hand signature on it. Nothing else. Bruce checked it, and no word appeared on any page, whether it was the previous page or the back page. twice.
The man sitting next to Bruce whistled and peered over Bruce's shoulder.
"This is a lot of money," he said with a friendly smile. He looks harmless, very much like Santa Claus.
Bruce glared at him, "Nosy."
"I'm sorry," the person said desperately. "I... uh... just..."
Bruce glared at him again.
The man closed his mouth and looked away from Bruce. He ran as far away as possible from Bruce, because his bowl full of jelly was not far from him.
Bruce carefully folded the check back into the blank page and stuffed it back into the envelope. He put it back in his pocket. He felt its weight again, and the false comfort it gave him, disappeared. The stationery was thick and hard, and the corner of the envelope poked his collarbone. He stuffed his pocket a little more, but continued to poke him. On the way home.
"This is a signal," Sarah said with a check. "This is a signal that you should continue to work. You are rich now. This is destined."
"I don't believe in signs," Bruce said. "I don't believe in fate either."
Sarah's face sank. "I believe we are destined."
"You know what I mean," he said. He turned his back to her, opened the duffel bag, and threw everything that needed to be cleaned on the ground. Sarah sits cross-legged in a**. That check—an ominous five-dollar check was placed on top of a five-drawer chest of drawers that Sarah bought from a second-hand store, and she redecorated it with her little patient-like hands. The check is still in the envelope, nested in the newspaper. Bruce wrote the name of the envelope below. Now, it can be any kind of envelope—a bill, a dunning notice, a credit report, a bank statement.
"No, I don't know," she said. "How can you not believe in fate?"
"Sarah," he sighed heavily. His words came slowly and tired, just as he felt. "I don't believe it. It's that simple. I'm going to take a shower."
"But wait—" Sarah said.
"Listen, Sarah, don't hurt your feelings. You know I love you. I'm tired and need a bath."
He took off his shirt and lay on the floor, doing as many push-ups as he could in one breath.
Sarah hates the way he speaks. Don’t hurt your feelings. This is how he ends most disagreements. It seems that she has no right to be sad or hurt. If she is sad or hurt by feelings, it’s better than what she did herself. Know better, do better, feel better. Bruce certainly won't hurt his feelings. If Bruce's feelings were hurt, it was because someone did something to him. Someone did something bad to him. He makes sense. Sarah never had a valid reason. She is either stupid or wrong. She is too sensitive to look at the problem from some angles.
Sara watched the muscles on his back keep moving and contracting.
She wanted to push this issue, but he had a bad week—the worst week. She let it fall.
What she wants most is to hug him and be hugged by him. The past few days have felt like years. She felt sorry for Bruce, and felt sorry for Dr. Harvey, who she really liked. She is so sad, she has no idea how to make it better.
She could tell him through the way Bruce held him, the way he looked at her, that he didn't want to be hugged or touched, he was deep in his own mind, and no one welcomed him there. Sarah is no exception. Especially Sarah. She is no stranger to Bruce. That's how he handles tricky things.
She climbed out of the bed and walked around Bruce who was doing the second round of push-ups. Push-ups-He also does a lot of push-ups while thinking.
The envelope has been on the dressing table, has not been touched, has not been seen, and has not been forgotten.
This nightmare lasted for two weeks, fourteen happy and peaceful nights.
Bruce fell asleep and woke up full of energy. The perspective is back again, and the monotony of organizing the laboratory makes him both sad and comforting.
He told Clive Hawthorne that he could start in three weeks. He needs such a long time to organize his research and notes and organize them in an orderly, but easy-to-understand way.
On the morning after the fourteenth night without nightmares, Bruce found himself lost in a pile of almost forgotten notes.
He sat on the floor, at a loss for this newly discovered research. He remembered that one day late at night, he fell asleep at his desk, with his head resting on his crossed arms, half-dreaming half-awake, nightmarish scenes dancing in his mind, until he finally woke up from a high fever, his mind was full Various ideas. He grabbed the most recent notebook and started painting in the mist of fury. He felt so close, so very close. He scribbled for hours and almost filled a notebook.
Now he read the notebook again, and he began to feel the impulse that ignited his excitement that night. His handwriting is difficult to read because he writes so crazy that he hopes to write down everything before it is forgotten. After some hard work, Bruce was finally able to decipher the most obscure handwriting left in the middle of the night.
When he flipped through the notebook, something got tangled in the back of his head. It feels like there is a word on the tip of the tongue. He just didn't know what was bothering him like this. These notes make people feel very important. They feel that they are the answer, the key that makes the machine work, always there, not just occasionally. On the cliff, he felt very close to him. He read this information over and over again, letting it swim through his brain**. Let his brain relax, hoping it will come to him.
It did not come.
Bruce spent the entire day in his notebook, but it still didn't come. That night, when he left the laboratory and finally gave in, he felt depressed and anxious. His whole body is itchy, and his mind is full of all kinds of thoughts-these thoughts are so relaxing, let this thought come to him, he gave up this thought a few hours ago . He now wrestles with it face to face. He knew the answer was right under his nose. In the damn notebook. He knows this. He can feel it. He just didn't realize it yet. He will find out, otherwise he will go to hell.
He returned home with a notebook and full of excitement. Thankfully, Sarah fell asleep.
He ate tuna with canned food and cold rice, and poured some more on his notebook. He paced up and down on the floor. When he couldn't open his eyes anymore, he fell asleep on the sofa.
Bruce has experienced fourteen nights without nightmares. The fifteenth night started like the first fourteen, and he slept soundly for an hour, maybe two hours.
"You are late, Sarah," Mr. Chen said. He looked at his watch first, then at the clock on the wall, and finally at the watch.
Sarah was obviously exhausted. She didn't even apologize. This is very unusual for her, because she is a person who is used to apologizing excessively.
She ran around the counter, putting her bag in the cabinet.
She grabbed a rag and wiped the counter frantically until it sparkled.
**Look around, arms crossed. Sarah moved frantically from one mission to another, and on two occasions she almost got rid of Dr. Chen's same pot of serum herbs.
"What's wrong?" Chen asked.
"Nothing," Sarah said.
Chen waited. He came closer.
Sarah looked up from the appointment book. The review of ** is disturbing.
She blushed.
She picked up the receiver of the phone, pressed it to her ear and said, "See if anyone has cancelled the appointment.".
Chen waited.
"Myles Abernathy cancelled his 10:40," she reported. She picked a pencil from the drawer and carefully wiped Miles Abernathy from the appointment book.
"Sarah, I think you will start to assist in the treatment today."
"Really?" she said. pretty shocked. gratitude.
"Yes, it's time," he said.
He turned back to his office and did what he did there. Most of the time, he was so quiet that Sarah imagined him sitting in a chair, eyes closed, and doing nothing but waiting. (To be continued) (End of this chapter)