“I was crouched outside the flower shop watering the hydrangeas when the number above Uncle Zhang’s head suddenly dropped from ‘143’ to ‘3.’
He was carrying groceries and rushing toward the crosswalk, while a large truck honked behind him, its blare piercing the morning-market din.
I grabbed the watering can and ran over, splashing cold water on the back of his neck. ‘Uncle Zhang!
Your granddaughter just messaged me this morning. She said she wants your steamed sugar buns after school!
’
The old man stopped abruptly, and the truck roared past, grazing his clothes.
Clutching his pounding heart, he scolded me as a ‘crazy girl.’ I watched the number above his head climb back to ‘141’ and lowered my eyes, hiding the mud-streaked watering can behind me. He was the thirtieth neighbor I had saved with my ‘lifespan sight.’
Then one day at the hospital, I ran into a man in a white coat.
He was leaning against the fire stairs, his hair damp beneath his surgical cap, his knuckles pressed to his forehead. The number above his head was visibly counting down.
‘723…722…721…’
I gripped the sunflowers I was bringing to a hospitalized child, their stems leaving red marks in my palm.
Three days earlier, the surgery he had performed had failed, and the family had called him a ‘murderer’ in the corridor. Three years ago, when his mother died of a heart attack, every second that the emergency room’s red light stayed on had carved away at his lifespan.”
