Acupuncture Thunder

At two o'clock in the morning, the emergency department of the Provincial Hospital of Traditional Chinese Medicine. Shen Jinglei pushed open the door of the consulting room, and saw a man in his thirties lying on the treatment bed. The right half of his face was as stiff as a board, his right eye could not be closed, and the corner of his mouth was tilted to the left. The doctor on duty inserted the CT film into the viewing light: "There is nothing wrong with his brain, but I have done everything I can. His corneas are exposed and will be damaged over time." Shen Jinglei didn't watch the movie. She put three fingers on the patient's wrist - his pulse was floating but tight. She pulled an old needle bag from her pocket. Dark blue velvet, the edges worn white. That was the only relic left to her by her grandfather. Grandpa's nickname is "Shen Yizhen" and he is a folk acupuncturist in a small county. The night before he left, he wrote a name on her palm - Five Movement Acupuncture. My colleagues at the Provincial Hospital of Traditional Chinese Medicine don't know, my tutors don't know, and I can't find it in the ancient books in the library. Only the yellowed notebook contained an old letter, which contained an address from fifty years ago and a name she had never seen before: Zheng Leiting, the 1963 National Acupuncture Competition Champion. Now she works the night shift at the Provincial Hospital of Traditional Chinese Medicine, and the acupuncture department has an average of 13 outpatient visits per day. There are fewer and fewer patients, and the department is becoming more and more deserted. But what her grandfather left her was not a silver needle. It's a whole lost genre. A needle can stir up wind and thunder.