Page 98 of From Beijing, With Love

Poppy nodded and looped her arm through his as they leaned on each other.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREEYang

Yang’s stomach twisted as he stood outside Dr. Sun’s office. He felt like he was in the first year of his PhD again, waiting for his weekly one-on-one with his critical adviser. Taking a deep breath, he brought his knuckles to the frosted glass door and entered when he heard, “Come in.”

“Like the new office?” Dr. Sun asked. In his collared shirt and dress pants, he looked more like a businessman than a scientist in the newly renovated space.

“It’s modern.” Yang took a seat across the sleek glass desk, a polite smile on his lips. Section by section, their entire floor had gotten the modernization treatment—fewer walls, more glass. Shinier workbenches made for better recruitment pamphlets and donor visits but not necessarily better science, since it had kept everyone out of the lab for weeks now.

Dr. Sun set a neat stack of paper between them. Even upside down, Yang recognized his own words on the pages. Tapping the top page, Dr. Sun said, “This was an interesting read. Of the ten proposals I reviewed, this took me … shall I say, by surprise.”

Yang’s jaw twitched at the copious amount of red markups, his fingers itching to turn the pages around. He sat up straighter in his chair and pressed his palms into his knees to keep them from bobbing up and down.

He remembered his mom’s words again, and her bravery in those final days. He remembered that ten-year-old who lost his mom and that forty-year-old who lost the love of his life. If there was even an infinitesimal chance that his research could prevent this senseless loss, he had to fight for it.

“If I’m fortunate enough to continue my research at Tsinghua after my PhD, I want to do something that can help people,” Yang said, plainly but respectfully. “And the path forward, as I’ve laid out in the proposal”—he looked down at the pages between them—“is through pivoting and collaborating with those outside of our field.”

“You are not worried about this pivot being too substantial?” Dr. Sun asked, leaning back in the mesh office chair, his voice monotonic.

Yang heard his dad’s words in his head: I’ve read my fair share of lofty research proposals from grads who thought they knew better. Trust me, they don’t.

“Yes.” Yang met his adviser’s eyes. “It is lofty, but as a researcher—a scientist—I want to pursue ideas that are meaningful. As I’ve demonstrated in the proposal, the idea of bridging biophysics with oncology isn’t just lofty but also realistic and achievable.”

“Achievable, sure, but in what time frame?” Dr. Sun asked, his lined face challenging.

A corner of Yang’s lips lifted. He was ready for this question. While sitting alone on the train, instead of rewriting the proposal, he’d figured out how to turn it into reality—how he would make it all happen if he had to do it by himself, without Dr. Sun’s funding or Tsinghua’s prestige.

Step by step, he talked through each phase of his proposal, not as a lofty dreamer but as a detail-oriented planner. He talked about the resources necessary, the existing studies he had considered, the scientific assumptions he’d made, and how it all informed his timelines. Dr. Sun asked questions throughout. The questions were inquisitive and probing, challenging at times but not loaded or rhetorical. Halfway through, Dr. Sun cracked open his leather-bound notebook and jotted away.

“I know there’s still a lot that I don’t know, and I won’t know until I get there. But I’m willing, and happy, to do whatever it takes. Academia isn’t an easy place to be. The hours, the pressure—”

“Don’t forget the meager paycheck,” Dr. Sun added with a half smile.

“That as well,” Yang said, his own lips curling into a smile. “The point is that I can only go down this road if I’m passionate about what I’m doing. That’s the only way.”

His adviser’s expression softened. “You are not wrong.” He capped his pen. “To make a career, you need direction, and it won’t always be the same one that I point you to.” He handed Yang the stack of pages. “My notes are here. Have a read, and let’s align again before we pass the proposal to the department chair.”

Yang blinked. “Does that mean …”

“I’ll stand by your proposal in front of the department,” Dr. Sun said, his voice going back to monotone, as if he hadn’t just delivered the best possible news Yang could have dreamed of. “You should know that out of the ten proposals I’ve reviewed, I’m only passing two onward.”

Only two. And Yang’s crazy, lofty idea was one of them.

“Don’t look so surprised,” Dr. Sun said as he walked Yang to the door, patting him on the shoulder.

“Thank you,” Yang said when he remembered his manners. Still dazed, he stepped back out of the office, bumping into a worker in a stained coverall.

“Watch out,” the worker chided, a dust mask dangling from one ear.

“They are running behind,” Dr. Sun said before Yang could ask, his face darkening. He let out a sigh, one that Yang was no stranger to. “The renovation crew made a mess of things in the lab.”

“I’ll clean it up.”

“Don’t bother. They’ve still got a week’s worth of work to go, and the cleaning crew is already booked for next week. Just check that they haven’t broken anything at your station.”

Yang nodded. He was more used to this version of his adviser—critical and commanding—than the version who asked him thoughtful questions and talked to him like an equal. He had a feeling there would be a mix of both in his future.

“Yang?”