Miss C’s Midnight Runs: A Shanghai Story
Miss C is a young woman from Shanghai—and one of my readers. Technically, she’s in her 30s, about a dozen years younger than me, but calling her “a young girl” still feels right. So let’s just refer to her as “she” or “Miss C.”
Two days ago, on April 15 in the early hours of the morning, she undertook what could only be described as an ordinary Shanghainese’s “Cross-River Recon Mission.”
Just past midnight, she received a call from her mother in Jinqiao. Her father, in the late stages of liver cancer, was in critical condition. Without hesitation, she rushed out of her home near Huaihai West Road. There were no walls around her residential complex, and the midnight streets were eerily deserted. She slipped out, unlocked a shared bike, and began pedaling east at full speed.
After who knows how long—her feet swollen from the effort—she reached the Puxi end of a large bridge. There stood one of the city’s most beautiful bus stops, where in normal springs cherry blossoms would be in full bloom. A few empty trucks delivering fresh produce were parked roadside. Their drivers smoked in silence.
She approached one driver who seemed kind. After only a few words, she almost broke down in tears. The driver, silent and dark-faced, listened carefully, then stubbed out his cigarette and agreed to risk taking her across the river—for 600 yuan.
She agreed. He pulled open the rear latch of his truck. There was a step, but she couldn’t climb up on her own. He helped lift her in. Inside, there was nowhere to sit—just a chaotic mess. Before locking the door, the driver warned: “Don’t make a sound.”
The truck sped off, diving into the cross-river tunnel. At checkpoints, it paused; from inside, she could faintly hear conversations between the driver and inspection personnel. She clung to an overhead handle to steady herself as the fear crept into the cold, metallic dark. She stopped crying, but her body wouldn’t stop trembling.
About 20 minutes later, the truck stopped. She thanked the driver and left, unlocking another shared bike. Before long, she reached her parents’ home.
It had only been about ten days since her last visit, but her father was already visibly emaciated. Surprised to see her, he said: “Why did you come? I’m fine!”
Her mother explained that they were running out of pain relief patches. The neighborhood volunteers had been very helpful in trying to procure more, but hospitals were out of stock. “Your father… he’s been saving the last ones. He’s afraid when the end comes, the pain will be unbearable.”
Her father added, “It’s too risky for you to come see me. Not worth it. When you go back to Puxi, be careful. If someone stops you, don’t argue—be polite. Promise me, okay?”
She told me this story that same afternoon, while still at her parents’ home in Pudong. Her WeChat message made my eyes sting with tears:
With her permission, I posted her plea for help in my WeChat Moments. Within minutes, several leads came in. In under three hours—and thanks to the tireless efforts of Ms. He Jing and Mr. Cheng from Giant Group—we managed to get the urgently needed pain relief patches from Zhongshan Hospital. I should note that these are controlled substances; Miss C provided all the required ID, insurance, and medical records as per regulation.
That night, just after 9 PM, Miss C once again rode in the same produce truck back to Puxi. Since it was late, she voluntarily added another 100 yuan. The driver, impressed by her generosity, gave her a brand-new hazmat suit before she left.
"Put this on," he said, blinking. "It’ll let you go many places."
By the following afternoon, her father had received the medication.
We thought, for a moment, that the ordeal was over.
But that night, a new emergency emerged.
Miss C shared her father’s condition and medical history in a healthcare WeChat group. A doctor, after reviewing it, warned that the patient hadn’t had a bowel movement in two weeks and was showing signs of ascites due to liver failure. It was critical. He needed emergency care immediately.
From midnight on, Miss C tried calling 120 and 110 from Puxi. Either the lines rang endlessly, or no solution was given. She tried calling the produce truck driver again, but he was stuck making deliveries in Beicai.
It was, once again, Run Lola Run in a never-ending Groundhog Day.
In the early hours, she snuck out again. On leaf-covered streets, she pedaled furiously to Zhongshan Hospital. After confirming the ER would accept her father, she spotted a silent Iveco van by the roadside, the driver rearranging shared bikes.
Without a word, the Iveco crossed the river and sped toward Jinqiao.
She registered her father at exactly 4:01 AM.
At 6:30 AM, I messaged her on WeChat: “Is everything going smoothly at the hospital?”
She replied:
It’s now 11:25 AM.
I haven’t heard back.
Within 48 hours, an ordinary Shanghainese woman experienced two unforgettable midnight sprints.
If she’s Lola, then how many more desperate or hopeful runs must she endure before this ends?