To earn medical expenses for my six-year-old autistic son, my wife Anna took on the high-risk job of river dredging through my brother Brandon’s introduction. During a flood season, she and my brother accidentally fell into the water and drowned. Three months after they left, my son also died from prolonged refusal to eat and stress-induced exhaustion. To prevent others from repeating my son’s tragedy, I took care of my wife’s parents while burying myself in study. I developed a specialized treatment plan for severe autism, and later opened a charity clinic to help autistic children free of charge. Until that day when I suddenly received a call for help. “Is this Dr. Smith speaking?” “My daughter also has severe autism. Can you save her?” I froze, because on the other end of the line was the voice of my wife who had been dead for ten years. On the phone, the woman pleaded almost humbly: “Dr. Smith, please, you’re our last hope.” A man’s voice came from beside her, tearful: “Dr. Smith, my daughter’s name is Lucy. She’s four years old with severe autism, and she’s contracted uremia. She refuses medical treatment—she’s terrified of doctors. Now she has multiple organ failure, and the hospital has issued a critical condition notice.” “We’ve asked everywhere. In the whole country, only you can save her!” I’d received no less than a hundred such calls in ten years. My charity clinic was the last lifeline for countless families with autistic children. Every time, my answer had been yes, and I never charged a penny. But this time, suppressing the chill rising from my very bones, I interrupted her directly: “The child’s name, age, and parents’ names.” The phone went quiet for a moment before the woman spoke: “The child’s name is Lucy. She’s four years old. My name is Anna, and her father’s name is…” “Brandon.” I finished for her. The line went dead silent, as if surprised I would know. Anna, Brandon. These two names, after ten years, stabbed viciously into my heart once again. I felt instantly transported back to that funeral ten years ago. The venue was packed with people. The coffin sat beside an open grave as people stood in silence, holding black umbrellas. Anna’s mother collapsed on the coffin, crying until she could barely breathe: “Anna! My daughter! How could you die—” Anna’s father stood beside her, eyes red, supporting her, his voice trembling: “Don’t cry, don’t cry… let Anna leave this world in peace…” Several relatives reached out to pull Anna’s mother back, some offering tissues, some patting her back, murmuring: “I’m so sorry for your loss.” I stood to the side holding three-year-old Lorne, feeling completely hollowed out. Lorne, uncomfortable from my tight grip, patted my face with his small hand: “Daddy, hurts…” Anna’s voice took on a tentative tone. “Dr. Smith, you… you know us?” I didn’t answer, only heard Anna urgently whispering to Brandon on the other end, then promising me again: “Dr. Smith, money is no object. We’ll give you whatever we have!” “As long as you’re willing to help, we’re willing to donate… no, to pay you one million! Please!” One million. Back then, when Anna abandoned our son who also had autism, she took the two hundred thousand dollars in death benefits—my son’s lifeline—and faked her death to escape. How resolute she had been then. Now, to save her daughter with Brandon, Anna was truly generous. My fingers gripping the pen turned white from the pressure as I spoke, word by word. “I’m sorry, this child—I won’t save her.” “Why?!” Anna’s voice suddenly shot up, full of disbelief. “We can pay more! Two million! Dr. Smith, you’ve always been…” Anna couldn’t finish her sentence. I hung up directly. The phone slipped from my trembling palm and hit the desk with a dull thud. Finally, the whole world was quiet.
When I pushed open the front door, the aroma of food hit me, but my stomach only churned. In the dining room, Anna’s parents were already seated at the long table. Across from them, as always, was an empty seat with a clean place setting. Anna’s mother carried a casserole, carefully spooning creamy mashed potatoes onto the plate in front of that empty seat. She cut up a piece of gravy-covered steak and placed it there, murmuring: “Anna, time to eat. I made your favorite roast beef today.” Ten years, rain or shine. They believed Anna had died heroically in flood relief efforts ten years ago, her body never recovered. A hero. So for these ten years, at every meal, they left a place for Anna, with food set out. As if she were still alive, just away on a trip. I stared at that plate of steaming food, hatred churning inside me. The daughter they worshipped day and night was actually living well in another city at this very moment. And Anna and Brandon were humbly begging me to save their daughter. I changed my shoes and walked over step by step. “Smith, you’re home? Hurry and wash your hands for dinner, today…” Anna’s mother looked up at me with a kind smile. But her words cut off abruptly. Because I walked straight to that empty seat, and under their shocked gazes, I picked up the food left for Anna, turned around, and threw it—plate and all—into the kitchen trash. The crash of breaking dishes exploded in the silent air. “Smith, have you lost your mind?!” Anna’s father shot to his feet, trembling with rage. Tears instantly streamed down Anna’s mother’s face as she looked at me in disbelief: “Smith… what are you doing? That’s… that’s food left for Anna…” I turned around and looked coldly at them, at these pitiful old people who’d been kept in the dark for ten years. I couldn’t tell them that their proud daughter wasn’t dead at all. Anna just found my autistic son and me to be burdens, so she and my best friend planned a fake death and ran away together. I couldn’t say a single word of it. I could only vent my ten years of accumulated resentment in the cruelest way. “Dead people don’t deserve to eat.” That night, I didn’t return to my room. I sat in my son’s room. Everything in the room remained exactly as it was when he left. His crooked drawing of our family still sat on the desk. I picked up the worn, matted stuffed toy from the bedside. This was a birthday gift Brandon had given my son. My son loved it. In his final moments, he clutched it tightly in his arms, calling over and over: “Mommy… Mommy…” I held that toy and sat there all night, until dawn squeezed through the curtain cracks and shone coldly on my face.
The next day at the clinic, Eve made me a cup of hot tea. As she handed it over, her slender fingers paused on the white ceramic cup. Her expression was gentle as always, but her tone carried a trace of concern: “Dr. Smith, yesterday’s call… you really refused?” “I’ve never seen you like this.” Eve was my deputy and my most capable partner. She knew how much I’d sacrificed for this charity clinic, and she knew I treated every patient like my own child, never giving up before. I picked up the teacup without answering. The warm liquid slid down my throat, but couldn’t warm that frozen heart. “Take it slow. There’s always hope.” Seeing my pale face, Eve habitually tried to comfort me. I forced a slight smile in response. Hope? My hope died ten years ago. Before I could speak, the office door burst open. A young rehabilitation therapist rushed in frantically: “Dr. Smith, Miss Eve, something’s wrong—someone’s kneeling outside!” Eve and I exchanged glances and immediately headed out. The afternoon sun was vicious as fire, baking the ground until white heat rose from it. Outside the clinic entrance, a large crowd had gathered, mostly parents picking up their children. In the center of the crowd, a woman knelt upright on the scorching cement. Behind her stood a man, helplessly holding a child, his face full of anxiety. It was them. Anna and Brandon. I put on a mask and slowly walked through the crowd to stand before them. “Dr. Smith! You’re finally willing to see us!” The moment Anna saw me, she crawled forward on her knees two steps, crying, her voice pitiful: “Please, save my daughter! As long as you’re willing to help, we’ll give you any amount of money!” Brandon also chimed in with red-rimmed eyes and a hoarse voice: “Dr. Smith, we’ve asked around. Only you can save her. Please have mercy!” My gaze fell on the child in their arms. Lucy. She wore soft, comfortable cotton clothes. Her face was pale, but she still showed signs of careful nurturing. Her features resembled Anna’s. But my son Lorne… When he died, he wore faded old clothes, washed until they were white. He was so thin he was just bones. His tiny body curled in my arms, his last weak breath still stubbornly calling for the woman who’d abandoned him. “Mommy…” My heart felt like someone had torn it open with a dull blade, blood pouring out, the pain almost making me unable to stand. The surrounding parents began whispering. “Dr. Smith has always been so soft-hearted, why this time…” “Right, what a pitiful child. They’ve been kneeling here so long.” I took a deep breath, suppressing the metallic taste rising in my throat. Under everyone’s puzzled gazes, I looked down at Anna kneeling on the ground and said coldly: “Stop dreaming.” “I’ll save anyone else, but not this child.”
The moment those words fell, the entire scene went dead silent. Anna, kneeling on the ground, jerked her head up, her eyes full of disbelief. Brandon behind her also froze, his lips trembling, unable to speak. “Why?” Anna’s voice shook. “Dr. Smith, how have we offended you? As long as you save the child, money is no problem!” “One million! No, five million! We’ll transfer it to you right now!” She thought I was demanding a higher treatment fee. The surrounding parents exploded in discussion, voices surging like a tide. “Five million! Why won’t Dr. Smith agree?” “Exactly. Dr. Smith never charges us anything to treat our children. What’s wrong today?” “Still, you can’t gamble with a child’s life…” These people who had once received my kindness now looked at me with reproach. I ignored them, my gaze still coldly fixed on Anna’s face. Seeing me unmoved, Anna seemed to have all her strength drained. She collapsed to the ground crying, her voice shrill: “You have no heart! How can you be so cruel!” “She’s just a child! You’re refusing to save her! This is murder!” Brandon also stepped forward with red eyes, pointing at my nose and roaring: “Do you have any medical ethics at all! We came seeking medical help, not charity! If you won’t save her, we’ll call the police!” He actually pulled out his phone and dialed emergency services. Soon, a police car came roaring up. Two officers listened to Brandon’s embellished accusations, looked at Anna crying her heart out on the ground, and finally approached me with difficulty: “Um… Dr. Smith, is it? Given this situation…” Eve immediately stepped forward, blocking me, calmly presenting the clinic’s charity certification documents: “Officers, we’re a charity organization. All assistance is voluntary and doesn’t fall under medical dispute jurisdiction.” The police looked at the documents and immediately understood. They sighed and shrugged at Anna and Brandon: “We can’t get involved in this. Providing help is a favor, not an obligation. We can’t force it.” With their last hope shattered, Anna’s face instantly turned deathly pale. In the deathly silence, I suddenly let out a low laugh. I walked back in front of Anna and looked at that face—both familiar and strange—asking word by word: “Anna, do you really not know why I won’t save your daughter?” Under her incredulous gaze, I slowly pulled down my mask.
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