Chapter 742: A Full-On Collision

Old Yeats and his men went into the doctor’s office next to Doctor Hughes’s. The sign on Doctor Hughes’s door read "Internal Medicine (II)," making the one they entered "Internal Medicine (I)."

Inside the office, a doctor was meticulously examining a patient. The man was emaciated, with thinning hair and sunken eyes. His large frame was just skin and bones, making him look like a living skeleton.

It was clear that before he fell ill, he must have been a tall, robust man. Now, he was so weak he couldn’t even lift a hand.

The doctor’s brow furrowed deeper. Though he had prepared himself, Old Yeats’s heart sank. "Doctor," he asked politely, "can he be cured?"

"He should be admitted."

The doctor sighed. ’In truth, hospitalization won’t cure him, but it can ease his suffering and let him live his last few days in comfort.’

"I... I’m not staying... G-go... home..."

The patient spoke, his weak voice nearly inaudible. The girl grasped his hand and said softly, "Dad, you’ll get better if you stay in the hospital."

"No... No need... Old Yeats... Home..."

The patient suddenly grabbed Old Yeats’s hand. A light flared in his dim eyes, making them unusually bright. Old Yeats nodded. "Alright."

The doctor sighed and wrote a prescription. "Go get him a shot of Demerol."

The patient’s internal organs were failing, and he had to endure endless pain every day. A normal person would have died from the agony long ago, but this patient’s will to live was incredibly strong.

Will carried the patient on his back to get the painkiller shot, and the girl followed. Old Yeats stayed behind and asked bluntly, "How much longer does he have?"

"A month at most. Maybe only a few days. Be prepared for it to happen at any time," the doctor said, speaking plainly.

Old Yeats pressed his lips together, not saying a word. After a long moment, he said, "Use the best medicine. Make him more comfortable."

"It would be best to have him hospitalized. Some of the better drugs can only be prescribed to inpatients," the doctor said earnestly. He could tell Old Yeats wasn’t short on money—his overcoat was made of fine material, and he carried himself with an uncommon air. He could clearly afford the best treatment.

"Go ahead and draw up the admission forms."

Old Yeats agreed. He just wanted his brother to live a few more days, no matter what it took.

The doctor quickly wrote out the admission form and handed it to Old Yeats, paying no mind to the scar on his face. This gave Old Yeats a good impression of the man. After a moment’s thought, he gave the doctor a deep bow. "I’ll be entrusting my brother to your care. Money is not an issue. All that matters is that his last few days are comfortable."

"Of course. I’ll be sure to take good care of him. Using imported drugs should buy him a few more days." The doctor rose to his feet. Now that he had Old Yeats’s word, he could prescribe the best treatments without reservation.

"I’m counting on you."

Old Yeats inclined his head slightly, took the admission form, and went to handle the paperwork. In a little while, he would also have to convince his stubborn brother.

He walked out the door and had just reached the office next door when the door suddenly flew open. A person rushed out like the wind and crashed right into him, leaving him with an armful of someone soft and fragrant. Old Yeats instinctively steadied her, but quickly let go and took a few steps back.

"I’m so sorry! Are you alright?"

Rosalind Green apologized profusely. She was furious. She had stormed out to find her son and settle the score. ’He actually brought me to see a psychiatrist! That’s no different from thinking I’m crazy! It’s outrageous!’

Rosalind Green, who was normally gentle and good-tempered, was truly furious this time. Her own son had treated her, a perfectly sane person, as if she were crazy. Of course she was angry. That’s why she had stormed out in such a rage, never expecting to run into someone.