Sunlight slipped through the slats of the blinds and fell across Ethan's face.
He opened his eyes slowly, his mind still foggy.
Three solid hours of sleep had washed every emotion away, leaving only a cool, pleasant blankness.
He rolled over, stretched, and let his body unfold in the warm sun.
[Remember this site's domain—easy, breezy reading from Taiwan.]
That long-lost sense of looseness spread through him like warm water.
The aches from yesterday's "overexertion" had vanished, replaced by a bright, open-bodied joy.
It was the kind of elevation the body only grants the mind after true release and total rest.
Eyes half-lidded, he smiled to himself: Mm… a man really shouldn't bottle things up too long; he needs to let off steam now and then.
He drew the curtains back; the sun was almost blinding.
He shook his head and walked into the bathroom.
In the mirror his hair was messy, but his eyes were bright.
He rubbed the back of his neck, checking in on his mental state.
"Feeling good."
Hot water cascaded over him; foam slid down his shoulders, and it felt like a full reboot.
As his thoughts cleared, he started running the numbers in his head.
The hundred-thousand-dollar check had been deposited yesterday.
After paying Mary's wages, the pharmacy tab, the electric bill, and the floor repairs, a little over eighty grand remained.
"Enough for half a year of loan payments," he murmured. "Ever since I bought the clinic on credit, this is the first time I've felt even a little flush."
With money in his pocket for once, Ethan decided to clear the shopping list he'd been ignoring forever.
He left the apartment at one in the afternoon; the sun was perfect.
List in hand, Ethan moved with single-minded, almost frightening efficiency.
A quick circuit of his regular stores left him looking—and feeling—brand-new.
First, daily staples: toothpaste, shaving foam, coffee beans, laundry detergent, a few crisp white shirts.
Next, the sports section: those sole-worn running shoes could finally retire.
He picked out a training set and two new pairs—one for running, one for commuting.
On Fifth Avenue a crowd caught his eye.
People queued around the corner in a line that hugged the entire block.
Inside the window a brand-new device played an ad on loop.
On the glass, a short, arrogant tagline: "Today, Apple is going to reinvent the phone."
The screen flashed familiar faces—Dustin Hoffman, Monroe, Tom Cruise—each speaking the same word into a telephone: "Hello."
Black-and-white mixed with color; old rotary rings chimed until a hand lifted an unseen glass rectangle. The screen lit with a single word: "Hello."
The image froze; the voice-over declared: "Apple reinvents the phone."
Ethan stared, blinked, then laughed aloud. "So this is the year. One 'Hello'—six hundred bucks. Jobs is a genius."
He glanced at the long line, hesitated half a second, then walked straight over.
An hour later he stepped out with two boxes—two first-generation iPhones, one for use, one for the shelf.
"Keep it to witness the future."
At the electronics mall he added a few clinic essentials: an air-conditioner, a sterilizer cabinet, a microwave, and a new coffee machine.
At checkout he remembered Caroline's gripe: "Our apartment's hotter than an oven."
Smiling, he tossed a compact AC unit onto the pile.
In the address field he left no name—only the girls' apartment address and phone number.
After dinner, coffee freshly brewed and a long-overdue game session loading, his phone rang.
The iPhone screen lit with a familiar name: Max.
"Doc."
Max's voice carried its usual lazy, razor edge: "Did you secretly do something thoughtful and stupid?"
Ethan leaned back, a grin tugging at his lips: "You'll have to be specific—my recent stupid streak is pretty long."
"An AC installer just called me," Max drawled.
"Says someone ordered us a split-unit and left my name.
At first I thought God had finally taken up charity, then I remembered He only mails me bills. In all of New York, you're the only one who'd ship me cold air."
Ethan chuckled: "Maybe you called out to Him so many times last night He got sentimental."
"Whether God's touched or not, I know you just didn't want to move your ass," Max snorted—then couldn't help laughing. "But… thanks. When Caroline heard, she looked like she'd won the lottery—said she can finally sleep without being baked."
Ethan traced a finger along his cup: "Good. I felt sorry for your oven—worried it'd be out of a job. At those temperatures you could bake cupcakes right on the countertop."
"Hey," Max sighed, voice softening. "Thanks, Ethan. Really."
"So am I forgiven?"
"Don't get cocky, Doc," she snapped back, though a smile crept in. "I've merely decided against poisoning your next cake."
They both laughed.
After a beat Max's tone gentled: "If you're ever bored, swing by the diner. I'll buy you cake, Caroline swears she'll spring for coffee."
"Sounds dangerously tempting."
"Keep it clean." Max chuckled. "But… seriously, door's always open."
Ethan's smile turned warm: "Then it's a deal. If you or Caroline feel off—aches, pains, whatever—drop by the clinic. Full gear, professional, dependable—and best of all, free."
"Fair warning," Max stretched the words, "I'm prone to feeling 'off' absolutely everywhere."
"Guess I'll stock up on massage oil—and maybe some butter too."
A second of silence, then Max's short, bright laugh.
It carried her familiar bite, but also something lighter, long-missing.
"All right, Doc—looks like we can talk again."
"Yeah." Ethan gazed at the city lights outside. "Back to normal human conversation."
"Let's keep it that way," Max said, "at least until your next act of stupidity."
"Brace yourself," Ethan lifted his coffee, calm. "My inventory of dumb moves is massive and constantly restocking."
"Then I'll be watching, Doc."
A soft laugh, then the click of the line going dead.
Ethan set the phone down, leaned back, and smiled.
"Guess that's making peace with the past."