The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 297

As he spoke, he turned to Dawson. "Dawson, clean up my office."

Dawson: ???

Dr. Foster, didn't you literally just ban me from touching your stuff?!

*

The two of them stepped out of the office, walked down the corridor, and headed to the reception room on the second floor.

Calling it a reception room was generous; it was essentially just a converted patient room. It held an old sofa, a coffee table, and two wicker chairs. A rusty water cooler stood in the corner, and a thriving pothos plant sat on the windowsill.

On the floor next to the plant sat a trash can containing an empty cup of instant mac and cheese.

Garrison grabbed two paper cups from the cooler and brewed some tea. It was the cheapest kind of supermarket tea bags. He pushed one cup toward Vanessa and sat down on the sofa with his own.

Vanessa took the cup, blew on the steam, took a tiny sip, and then set it down on the coffee table.

She remembered that Garrison came from one of the most prominent, wealthy families in the capital. Even though they had kept a lower profile in recent years, their fortune was still massive. He shouldn't have been reduced to eating instant meals and drinking cheap tea.

"Are you having trouble... keeping the hospital afloat?" Vanessa asked.

Garrison shook his head. "It's just a standard private clinic. It's small, so it barely makes a profit, but it doesn't lose much either."

"The encapsulation phase."

Vanessa's eyes widened. Her lips parted, then closed. "Already? I thought it would take at least another year. And you did it alone—"

"Yeah," Garrison cut her off, clearly not wanting to dwell on the subject. "But encapsulation isn't easy. The technical requirements are incredibly high. I've tried doing it manually a few times, but our equipment isn't precise enough. I might have to hire an external manufacturer. It'll be expensive, but right now, it's manageable."

Vanessa didn't respond immediately.

She leaned back against the sofa, her right hand resting on the armrest, tapping her index finger in a slow rhythm. It was a subtle gesture, but in the quiet reception room, every tap sounded like the ticking of a grandfather clock. After a few seconds, she spoke again. Gone was her brisk, official tone; her voice dropped, turning much softer.

"Garrison, is all this really worth it?"