Karen’s Body Temperature

"Doctors Without Borders" x "Freelance Photographer," a love-hate romance

His name was Chen Zhou.

I remember the first time I saw him. A ridiculous thought even crossed my mind:

If angels really exist in hell, they must look something like him.

He was covered in blood, and I couldn't tell whether it was his or someone else's. Sweat slid down from his temples, mixing with the grime on a shirt so dirty its original color was impossible to make out.

He didn't look up. He only said quietly, "Move the light a little to the left."

I froze for two seconds before realizing

he was talking to me.

Flustered, I moved the photography light.

"You don't mind if I take pictures, do you?" I asked tentatively.

He just said, "Mm." His tone was as casual as if he were commenting on the weather.

In that instant, it was as though the world had been muted.

All I could hear was the click of the shutter and see the steady, almost mechanical movements of his hands.

Only later did I learn that he had spent three full hours on that operation. The boy injured in the bombing survived.

The frame I captured, the blood, the light, the side of his face as he bent over, became the most important photograph of my life.

I never told him.