Page 35 of From Beijing, With Love

“It’s established that we have different genes. If you put the two of us in a room with different stressors like extreme heat—”

Daniel barked out a laugh. “We both know what happens when I’m under extreme heat.”

“If we behaved differently to the heat, then it could mean the variations in any of the genes I just mentioned are responsible. Of course, humans are too complex to be making these kinds of deductions, which is why we use model organisms with simple genetics. Studying how they respond to stressors will allow us to answer questions at the genetic level with accuracy.”

“Interesting,” Daniel said, surprisingly still awake. “What’s the purpose of the study? I mean, what can you do with the knowledge?”

Yang sobered at Daniel’s directness but saw no mockery in his earnest face.

“My adviser always says that our job as scientists is to discover new knowledge. Each new insight is like a brick. Maybe one day someone can use that brick to build something. It could be tomorrow or ten years from now.”

Or never.

Daniel tilted his head. “And you’re fine with that?”

The “Yes” was on the tip of Yang’s tongue, but he couldn’t get it out.

“Actually, I think if we pivoted our focus a bit, there’s a path toward applicability … as in helping people,” Yang said, keeping his voice light, like it was nothing. “I brought the idea to my adviser years ago. Let’s just say that he wasn’t open to it.”

To be exact, Dr. Sun’s response was that when Yang got his own funding, he could take the research in whichever direction he wanted. It was delivered with a hearty laugh, but when Yang found himself being assigned all the menial lab chores for weeks after, he learned the way things worked. So he’d gone the pragmatic route, put his head down, and made himself the good soldier that didn’t step out of line. Academia was a ladder, and he needed to climb it one rung at a time. Once in a while, he’d dream about the research he’d do when he got his own grants and led his own lab. But only once in a while and never out loud.

“Well, he’s wrong,” Daniel said with a conviction he couldn’t possibly have.

“To be tenured at the highest-ranked university in China, he’s entitled to be,” Yang said out of habitual defensiveness. “Dr. Sun is world renowned in our field, and having him as my adviser will open doors. Besides, if he takes me on as a postdoc, I’ll be given more freedom.”

“Why not go somewhere else? I’m sure there’s plenty of labs—”

“There isn’t,” Yang cut him off. It felt like they were having the same argument they had in the Forbidden City.

Burn the village down, Daniel had said, like it was possible to set everything you know on fire. It wasn’t. Yang would know.

The neon lights were making his head throb. He rubbed his face.

“There’s a Chinese word—chiku—that literally translates to eat bitter. We all have to suffer through the hard stuff before we get to where we want to be.”

“And where’s that?” Daniel asked, his eyes challenging. “If you had all the money in the world, what kind of research would you do? What’s your pipe dream?”

It dawned on Yang that no one had ever asked him that question. Not Dr. Sun, not his PhD committee, not even his dad.

What surprised him more was that he had an answer cued up, like he had been waiting for the question all along.

“When I was ten, I wanted to be a doctor. That was before I fell in love with physics, practically at first sight. I don’t know how to describe it. It was the only subject I had to work hard to be good at.” Yang leaned back into the tufted leather. Even though the piano ballad continued, the screen had gone dark, letting the neon graffiti illuminate the room in shades of the rainbow. “Then I joined Dr. Sun’s lab because I saw a way for the physics research to actually help people. The genes we are studying play central roles in the stress response pathway. In other words, how do cells respond to stressors like heat and oxidation … and by extension, how cancer cells resist radiation and chemotherapy.”

There it was. Yang had said the C word. To this day, it still had a power over him. It had broken him to watch his mom fight for her life, only to have the disease fight back harder.

He met Daniel’s eyes, and a silent understanding passed between them.

“Who was it?”

“My mom. Nasopharyngeal carcinoma. She passed away when I was ten,” Yang said, then he remembered something. “Actually, ten and a half.”

His mom had always said he had to be brave because he was ten and a half, like that half a year made all the difference in the world.

Something between recognition and heartbreak materialized on Daniel’s face, in his half-knitted brows, in his hazel eyes that looked close to brown in this dimly lit room—the same brown of his dad’s eyes. The parent that he’d also lost.

“I’m sorry,” Daniel said when he finally spoke. He reached for Yang’s hand, only to stop when their hands were centimeters apart on the tufted leather. His eyes darted up to Yang, as if asking for permission. Yang inched his hand forward until their pinkies touched. That brief contact gave Daniel the encouragement he needed to cover Yang’s hand with his own, blanketing him in a heavy warmth. “You’ll get exactly where you want to be. I know you will.”

Yang rarely allowed self-doubt, because it was a fast-spreading poison. But as Daniel said those words, he realized the doubt was always there, seeded deep down.