The burst a deafening crack darkness, thick and suffocating. At last the gloom began to lift, and a voice cut through the haze:
Emily Whitaker, the rescuers here; somethings gone off over there.
A sharp pain throbbed at the back of my neck as a hand tightened around it. I forced my lids open, a slow, painful struggle. Before my eyes swam a rectangular pendant, its surface engraved with zodiac symbols, and beside it the pale eyes of a woman in a white coat.
Into the theatre, quick! shouted a voice right beside me.
My parents had just returned from work. Mother bolted into the kitchen, peeking into the study where her son was doing his homework. David, entering the room, immediately sensed that his boy was not in a good mood.
Tom, whats the matter? he asked, ruffling his sons hair.
Nothing, the fourthgrader muttered.
Go on, speak up.
Its almost International Womens Day. Our teacher kept us after class and told us we have to make presents for the girls.
And whats the problem? his father smiled.
We have the same number of boys as girls, and shes already paired us up, Tom sighed. Ive got the plain one Imogen Whitaker.
All the girls want a gift, even the ones we think are unattractive, David said, trying to sound as if he were speaking to an adult. How did she decide? Alphabetical? By star sign?
No, by compatibility, Tom replied, a weak grin breaking through. Imogen is a Virgo, and a Taurus is supposed to suit a Virgo best. Im a Taurus.
Well, thats good then maybe youll fall for her after you hand over the gift.
Me? To Imogen Whitaker?
His father burst out laughing. Their mother, Lena, strode in:
Whats going on in here?
Lena, go to the kitchen, David said, his tone suddenly stern. Tom and I need a serious talk.
When she left, Toms voice trembled.
Dad, what am I supposed to do now?
Make the present.
What kind?
Ill make it at work tomorrow.
How can you, you work in a factory.
Yes, Im in the metalplating department. We produce every type of metal coating.
Dad, I dont get it.
Youll see tomorrow.
***
The next morning David carried a goldlooking chain with a rectangular pendant. One side bore the engraved signs of Taurus and Virgo; on the other, in fine script, it read:
To my classmate Imogen, on International Womens Day. Anthony.
The pendant shone brilliantly, and when his wife tucked it into a clear plastic bag it looked even more exquisite.
***
On March8th the teacher refused to conduct a lesson. First the pupils presented her with a gift; she thanked them at length, then announced that the boys should hand their presents to the girls.
Chaos erupted. Every boy rushed to his chosen one. Tom approached Imogen Whitaker and, reciting his fathers rehearsed line, said:
Imogen, happy Womens Day! Perhaps one day fate will bring a Taurus and a Virgo together.
He turned back to his seat, his heart pounding as if it had just been knocked out by a blow.
Soon after, Imogens family moved to a different district, and she transferred to another school in Year5.
***
Anthony opened his eyes to the white ceiling of a hospital ward. He tried to move his arms and legs; only his left arm obeyed.
Where am I? he croaked, his voice hoarse.
A clatter of wheels announced a nurse on a bedside trolley. She looked him over and asked, Feeling better? Youre in the emergency surgery unit.
My limbs are whole? he asked quietly.
Looks like it, she replied, but youre wrapped from head to toe.
Good, at least Im intact.
A doctor entered, his voice gentle. How do you feel?
Whats happening to me? Anthony answered, his own question echoing back.
Nothing threatens your life. Your limbs will work again. Youll have a few small scars theyll heal, the doctor said, tapping a phone. Your mother asked to be called as soon as you wake.
Through tears, his mothers voice crackled. My son.
Mother, Im fine, he forced a cheerful tone. They said only a few tiny scars will remain. Ill be discharged soon.
My husband cant stay the night with you, she whispered. Ill be there shortly.
Dont worry, Mum, he replied, placing his phone beside him and managing a smile for the nurse. Thank you.
The nurse smiled back. Youll be out in about three weeks, I think.
A fellow patient asked, What happened to you?
Im a rescuer. At the plant the gas cylinders started exploding, Anthony recalled. We were called in, rushed to the burning area. Three people were trapped inside. The balloons were burst, fires everywhere. I was the last out. Right at the door another cylinder blew up I dont remember after that.
Lucky you survived, the nurse said.
Gordon, Anthony, announced another nurse. A colleagues here.
His friend burst into the room.
Hey Tom! How you doing?
Limbs are fine! Anthony replied, waving his left hand. Can only greet with this one.
Tell me what happened next.
We were getting out when it blew. We scrambled back in, dragged you out you were covered in blood. Doctors were already here.
Thanks!
Tom, youre kidding! his friend laughed, then his face softened. They want to nominate us for medals.
Maybe Ill be discharged before then.
Alright, Im off. Your rounds are about to start.
The doctor, a man in his forties, entered.
Hows it going, hero? he said, patting the bed.
Fine.
If you can talk, youll live. Let me check you.
Did you stitch me up? Im supposed to see Imogen Whitaker in two days.
***
Two days passed. Anthony was already trying to sit up; his right arm still throbbed, his legs ached, and a dozen bruises dotted his body. Two on his face from the blast, one from the cylinder that hit him squarely, and hed managed to thrust his right hand forward just in time. He stared at his reflection; his face was still swollen.
Today a doctor who had stitched him up for five straight hours in the operating theatre would make his rounds. Anthony felt a flutter of nerves.
She enteredyoung, striking, glasses perched on a neat nose, a white coat that suited her. At twentyseven Anthony was already married, though theyd separated six months ago; his exwife disliked his rescueworker salary.
Good afternoon, the doctor said, moving to his bedside.
Good afternoon. Were you the one who operated on me?
I am, she smiled. Everything alright?
Absolutely, thank you!
Let me have a look.
She leaned over, and the pendant glinted against his throat.
Imogen Whitaker! he exclaimed.
She stared at his swollen face.
Excuse me? she said, not recognising him.
Im a Taurus, he pointed at the pendant.
Tom Gordon? her lips trembled. You remember me?
Come on, Imogen, he said, seeing tears well up in her eyes, and placed a small flower on her hand.
Im sorry, she whispered, pulling a handkerchief to dry her cheeks. I never imagined wed meet like this.
***
After that night Imogen never entered his ward again, but Anthony realised their schedules now mirrored each other: day, night, two days off. He didnt want to appear helpless in front of her. The next day he shuffled across the ward, leaning on the beds, gripping the wall for balance before slipping into the corridor.
Evening fell. The daytime doctor left; a night shift crew arrived, their voices echoing in the hallway. The round was about to begin when sudden shouts and hurried footsteps erupted another victim was being rushed in. Ten oclock came, the night nurse dimmed the lights, but sleep eluded Anthony. Past midnight, footsteps faded, and in the stillness he heard quiet sobbing from the corridor. He rose slowly, slipped out, and found his former classmate, now a surgeon, hunched against a desk, crying. He placed a steady hand on her shoulder.
You Imogen!
She buried her face in his shoulder.
I operated on a woman who fell under a car. I did everything I could, but shes now in intensive care and probably wont survive. She has two children; her husband is by her side.
Take it easy, Imogen.
She shook her head. Ive been a surgeon for three years and I still cant get used to people dying.
Take it easy, take it easy. Thats the job we chose. In five years Ive seen as many deaths, but weve also saved countless lives, Anthony sighed heavily. My wife left because I was never home and my wages were low. Im always fortysomething, still trying to make a living.
She looked him straight in the eye. Same here. People treat me like Im a lunatic. Ive never married, still living with my parents.
Come on, were only twentyseven, weve got our whole lives ahead.
No, Tom, were already twentyseven.
Imogen Whitaker, her pulse is slipping, a panicked nurse shouted.
Sorry! Imogen rushed back to the ICU.
That night Anthony lay awake, his mind racing. In the morning the nurse came in, as usual, and gave him a gentle pat.
Is the woman who had surgery last night alive? he asked, surprising even himself.
Shes alive, but her condition is critical.
***
Three weeks later Anthonys wounds had begun to knit. He saw Imogen during her shifts, and his attraction to her grew stronger, though the emergency department was hardly a place for private confessions. During one morning round the doctor announced:
Today Im discharging you, he said, smiling. Youll go straight to the GP, then theyll decide if you need further care.
Can I start packing?
Yes, no rush. Theyll prepare your discharge papers shortly.
When the doctor left, Anthony shaved, studied his reflection, and noted that the two remaining tiny scars added a rugged charm rather than marring his face. He gathered his things, stepped into the corridor, and caught sight of a nurse heading his way.
Looks like you finally made it out! she called, handing him his discharge slip.
Goodbye, Anthony!
He headed back to his oneroom flat, but first visited his parents, who had been anxiously awaiting his return.
Son! his mother exclaimed, pulling him into a hug. Youre alive and well!
Come, Ive made you a meal. Look at you, youve gotten so skinny.
Ah, Ive missed homecooked food!
Youll live here until youre fully recovered and married. Your rooms still empty, she said, halfteasing, so wash your hands!
By evening he stopped at the barbershop, then returned to his flat to collect some clothes. His mother immediately set about tidying them. Later that night his father arrived from work. They all sat together, as they often did, and talked until the small kitchen lights flickered low.
He fell asleep in his childhood bedroom, the room where his dreams had first taken shape, thinking:
Tomorrow I need to see the GP, then head to work, and perhaps an evening with Imogen.
He drifted off, the thought of the next night keeping him warm well past midnight.
***
The following morning Anthony walked to the clinic, spent the morning checking rooms, returned to his shift at the plant in the afternoon, and spent the evening packing.
Where are you off to? his father asked.
Dad, remember back when I was in fourth grade and you made that pendant for a classmate?
The one for plain Imogen Whitaker? his father chuckled.
Yes. You even said, She might fall for you. I still remember that.
Your words have come true. Im going to see her.
Twentyseven isnt a long time to begin a life with the one you love.