Others Save Lives with Medicine, I Peek at Their Date of Death

I've been able to see everyone's date of death since the day I was born.

The string of numbers above their heads tells me how much time they have left. Year, month, day, hour, minute, second. Not a second off. When the time is up, they die.

I worked as a fortune-teller, spent time in jail, and eventually got into medical school.

Other people studied medicine by memorizing textbooks. I did it by sneaking a look at people's death dates. If I said someone would die in three days, they wouldn't make it to the fourth. The whole department called me a jinx, until every word I said came true.

I thought I'd just muddle through life like that.

Until the day a woman covered in blood was rushed into the ER.

Out of habit, I glanced at the numbers above her head.

There were none.

Not zero. Not a short time left. Nothing at all.

As if someone had crossed her name out of the Book of Life and Death.

The monitors went haywire, their screens filled with gibberish. Her heart stopped, then started again. It stopped, then started again. Everyone in the department said she was bad news and told me to stay away.

I didn't listen.

Because the moment they wheeled her in, the numbers above my own head began to change.

Numbers that hadn't budged in twenty-six years.

For the sake of a woman whose numbers were gibberish.

They moved.