James makes his way at an intentional pace toward the platform, glancing back at the man who shuffles along several steps behind. They reach the metal staircase. James can see a single light above the uncovered tracks, and beyond this light, the violet-gray underside of the evening sky heavy with snow. He nods, gestures toward the stairs, and takes the steps slowly, listening through the noise of the station, the low grumble of an approaching train. There are the old man’s footsteps, tentative but determined. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Near the top, he senses a slight reverberation on the steps under his feet. There’s no cry, no thud, but he can tell by the sudden absence of the tapping that something is wrong. He turns.
The man is lying at the foot of the stairs. It’s as if someone picked him off the steps and flung him down at an unnatural angle. James sees a spreading stain of urine darkening the concrete floor, spreading past his bag, which has flown, or been bumped, to the side.
James hurries back down the stairs. He drops his duffel and bag of jia li jiao, strips off his backpack.
Through his mind runs the drill of CPR class. The first step: Call for help. He pulls out his phone, dials 911, and shoves it back into his pocket. The paramedics will track the call. He kneels beside the man.
James opens the withered mouth and looks past the gate of dentures, checking the tongue. He unbuttons the rough coat and puts his ear to the man’s chest, pressing his cheek against the shirt. No heartbeat. He examines the face. Wrinkles gone now; the bluish skin melted back against the bones.
He lays his ear against the man’s chest. No pulse.
It’s absurd that he of all people is the one to try to save this man. But no, not absurd. He’s not a random stranger. He’s a premed, he’s taken two CPR classes. Though his arms feel weak and rubbery, though he’s terrified, he knows what he’s supposed to do. He positions his hands as he has learned, locks his elbows, closes his eyes, says a silent prayer, and makes the initial push, almost a punch, into the frail rib cage. One, two, three, four, five. At thirty, he checks for pulse, for breathing. Nothing.
He’ll try the rescue breaths, make sure to do it right. He gulps air and puts his lips over the old man’s mouth. A sour-sweet taste, like cranberries, spreads over his tongue. He struggles for another lungful of air. He’s already sweating. He listens for the heartbeat: nothing.
Will the paramedics come? James looks up. The station is empty now. There’s only one person within earshot, a plump man sprinting to catch the train.
James resumes CPR and puts his back into it. Hears, senses exquisitely, an agonizing crack. He’s learned about this, reminds himself that such a crack is not always a bone breaking, but simply grinding, loosening the chest.
Minutes pass, with James alternating breathing and pumping. He’s tiring, slowing down. His shoulders ache, his arms are rigid. The man is a shapeless bag of bones and cartilage, as lifeless as the plastic-and-fabric practice mannequin, but more uncanny than the mannequin, more remote.
Someone’s tapping his shoulder. He clutches at the body, but strong hands pull him away.
“Thank you,” someone says. “We’ll take over now.”
A team of EMTs moves in with a stretcher. James huddles to the side on hands and knees. He can hear the EMTs conversing in quick, confident terms he should remember from his classes, but he can’t focus enough to understand. He’s unneeded. Someone else is pumping at the body and he knows that, by now, they’re also probably unneeded. Cold with sweat, sore all over, he stumbles to his feet. The scene, the train station, seems unfamiliar. Snowflakes drift over the stairs, sparkling in the light from the lamp above.
An EMT is next to him.
“Are you a relative? A grandchild?”
“I—no,” says James. “His name is Zhang Fujian. My family name is Chao. We were just—fellow travelers. How is he?”
“I can’t give information to unrelated—”
“Please.”
She looks at him for a moment. “He’s unresponsive,” she says. “We can’t pronounce him dead, it’s done at the hospital. We’ll continue CPR until we get him there.”
“Should I come along?”
“There’s no need.” Her voice is sympathetic. “You did the best you could. But the chance of bringing someone back with CPR is very small.”
He recalls the photograph. “Check in his pocket. There’s an address.”
“All right, thanks.”
Without knowing why, James grabs his greasy paper bag and hands it to her. “For his family.”
The medic takes the food and walks back to the stretcher, where the others are still pumping. In seconds, the body is gone.
James is alone. Gradually, he becomes aware of his own heartbeat, his thoughts. They assumed he was related. It was too complicated to explain. For half an hour, he was related.
He reaches down for his backpack and duffel, and that’s when he sees the old man’s ancient traveling bag. He hurries in the direction of the EMTs, but they are gone.
James hears the low whistle and squeak of his approaching train.
What else is there to do but pick up the traveling bag and bring it with him? When he gets home, he’ll look inside for ID; if he can’t find any, he’ll try to find the man’s family, the Zhangs. He tries to visualize the address on the back of the photograph, the smeared Illinois. He’ll mail the bag to them. Boarding the train, he puts the bag with his own luggage onto the rack above and sinks into his seat.
He remembers the old man, frail and light, like a hollow-boned human bird, falling back as silently as a feather falls, but a mortal being, not at all light, so consuming to pummel and to hold, solid, stubbornly organic. Why did he give the jia li jiao to the EMT? The jia li jiao was going to be a present for his mother. Instead, he handed it off, as if a gift of food would make up for a human life. He’ll go home and tell Dagou. Dagou will understand. He pulls his hood over his face. The train rocks slightly, bearing him deeper into the country, toward Dagou and the city of Haven.
Be on My Side
“They don’t eat seafood at the Spiritual House,” Ming Chao says.
His connecting flight brought him to an airport closer to Haven. There he rented a car and picked up James from the train station. He’s now taking his brother the final thirty miles to their father’s restaurant. Ming Chao, Ming the Merciless, middle child and most successful of Leo’s sons. Math whiz and track star, he left home for good to work in Manhattan.