Chapter 41 – The White Father and Son
Rayne Clinic, Sunday morning.
Ethan pushed open the glass door and glanced down at the floor. Even in the sunlight, faint dark stains were still visible.
He let out a quiet sigh.
"Ah—what a beautiful Sunday morning."
By routine, Rayne Clinic was closed on Sundays. But Mr. White had called earlier in the week, asking to come in specifically today. That left Ethan—clinic owner, attending physician, and currently the only full-time staff member—no choice but to come in and work alone.
Once inside, he laid out the sterilization equipment and began preparing for a full, thorough cleaning.
When Mary had been stabbed and crawled into the clinic, he'd focused solely on emergency treatment. Blood, if not dealt with within thirty minutes, turned sticky like glue. Even hospital-grade cleaning agents could make whoever handled it question their life choices.
If he wanted the clinic to return to a truly patient-friendly environment, a complete disinfection today was unavoidable.
By the time he finished, the clinic had regained that reassuring, clinical sterility. Sunlight reflected off the spotless floor, and the air carried a faint lemon scent from the disinfectant.
Ethan had just taken off his gloves when—
Ding.
The doorbell chimed as the glass door was pushed open.
He looked up to see Walter White stepping inside.
This time, Walter looked noticeably better than during their first meeting. His complexion was no longer ashen, his posture straighter, his breathing steadier. Overall, his bearing and color were much closer to that of a healthy middle-aged man—though he still carried the unmistakable trace of middle-aged greasiness. At least now, it was the healthy kind.
Behind him stood a teenage boy—presumably Walter's son.
The boy hesitated slightly as he entered, instinctively tapping the floor once with his crutch. His toes angled inward just a bit, knees held tight, every step measured and cautious—
A classic mild cerebral palsy gait.
His eyes swept across the clinic—equipment, treatment bed, surgical lights—his gaze carrying a faint but unmistakable wariness.
Walter smiled and rested a hand on his son's back.
"Ethan, I brought my son along today."
The boy frowned slightly and muttered,
"Dad, I'm not a patient."
Ethan stood up, his tone easy and welcoming.
"That's fine. Today, you're just my guest."
The boy paused, uncertainty flickering across his face. After a moment, he gave a small nod anyway.
Walter turned to Ethan, his tone casual but unable to hide his excitement.
"I went back to the hospital for a follow-up. The imaging shows the tumor has shrunk by more than a third."
Ethan smiled and nodded.
"That's excellent progress."
"It is," Walter said. "But the doctors think it's a problem with the equipment. They wanted me to redo the scan immediately."
"Did you?" Ethan asked.
"No." Walter shook his head. "I know it's not the machine. It's your treatment. I didn't want to waste time—or get dragged into a bunch of pointless control trials."
Ethan nodded.
"A wise decision."
His gaze then shifted to the boy.
"Let's start with your father first. We'll look at you afterward."
The boy didn't object. He simply tightened his grip on the crutch and nodded.
Ethan gestured for them to sit and closed the door behind them.
"Mr. White, let's do a quick follow-up exam."
Walter nodded and placed a document folder on the desk.
"These are the hospital imaging reports and diagnostic records."
Ethan sat down and opened the folder.
Inside were CT scans, printed radiology reports, and a diagnostic review form.
He held the images up to the light and compared scans from different dates.
"Mm. The changes are obvious… the tumor margins have contracted… and the active region has shrunk rapidly."
"Good," he said, setting the films aside. "Next, we'll do a physical exam."
He slipped on his stethoscope.
"Deep breath."
Walter inhaled and exhaled as instructed.
The lung sounds were clear and clean—no trace of the dull obstruction present last time.
"Even better than right after the previous treatment," Ethan said, removing the stethoscope. "The imaging and auscultation match."
Walter spoke quietly, with conviction.
"Ethan… for the first time in days, I feel like… I might not die like this after all."
Ethan nodded.
"I agree. Your recovery is more stable than I expected."
He then turned to the boy.
"Your turn, Walter Jr. Let's take a look at you."
The examination began with the basics.
Standing still, the boy's legs were visibly rigid. His leg lifts lacked fluidity. When stepping backward, his lower back overcompensated.
After walking a few steps, more issues became clear:
Both feet turned inward, the lower legs excessively internally rotated. His stride was short, balance unstable, muscles tense as if ready to spasm at any moment—
A textbook case of mild spastic cerebral palsy.
Ethan rehung the stethoscope around his neck and sat down.
"Mr. White, let me confirm something. He was born prematurely, wasn't he?"
Walter paused.
"How could you tell?"
"Because his gait suggests—"
Ethan gestured to the backs of the boy's knees, his ankles, and thighs.
"—a disruption in neural signal transmission caused by early white-matter damage."
Walter fell silent.
A flash of insecurity crossed the boy's face.
"So that's why I can't walk properly…"
Ethan shook his head.
"No. Given your medical history, you walk remarkably well."
The boy looked up, surprised.
Ethan continued,
"Cerebral palsy isn't a problem with muscles or bones. The issue lies in the brain's command system."
He tapped his own forehead lightly.
"When you walk, this part is supposed to send clear, complete instructions."
Then he made a gesture like a broken signal.
"But due to oxygen deprivation or other early factors at birth, certain neural pathways didn't fully develop. The result is disrupted transmission—signals that are incomplete, delayed, or jammed."
Walter swallowed.
"So he understands," Ethan summarized, "but his body doesn't always receive the message."
The boy pressed his lips together. Understanding didn't make it easier—no one likes being told part of their brain is damaged.
"But—"
Ethan stood up, his tone sharpening with focus.
"Cerebral palsy isn't hopeless. Your brain is still young, and many neural pathways remain inactive."
"If we can find them—wake them up—walking will become easier for you."
Walter's head snapped up.
"You mean… your treatment can do that?"
"I don't know how much improvement we'll achieve," Ethan said honestly.
"But I'm certain of one thing."
"Today, we'll see change."
In the real world, cerebral palsy is considered irreversible—because damaged brain structures don't regenerate.
But to Ethan—
If the dead could be brought back, what was cerebral palsy?
At worst, it was simply a matter of rebuilding neural connections.
Nearly every healing technique he possessed could help—only the speed differed.