Death Date Floating Above My Ex-Wife’s Head

The day of my divorce, I got hit by a car. When I woke up, everyone had a line of text floating above their heads. The nurse: [27 years old, eight years from now, breast cancer.] I picked up my phone. The first contact was my ex-wife, Vivian. After a second of hesitation, I opened her social media. Her latest post showed her and her new boyfriend in the Maldives, captioned "The rest of my life with you." The location showed it was posted three hours ago. Our divorce papers had been finalized just yesterday. My daughter sent me a voice message: "Dad, Mom says I can't go to her new house anymore. That man doesn't like kids." Gripping my phone, I went to pick up my daughter and ran into my ex-father-in-law, Robert Miller, at the entrance to the complex. Above his head, it read: [62 years old, three months from now, gas poisoning.] The moment he saw me, he started cursing: "Useless piece of trash! My daughter should've divorced you years ago!" "My daughter's new boyfriend is young and handsome, and he's a wealthy heir. What the hell are you?" I glanced at the text above his head and deleted the warning message I'd typed out, character by character. Then I took my daughter's hand. "Come on, sweetheart. Dad's taking you for pizza." 1 At the pizza place, my daughter Lily handed me a slice. "Dad, you eat it. You've gotten so skinny." She was only six years old, but she'd already learned to read adults' faces. I bought her a Coke. My phone buzzed again. Vivian sent a text: "Figure out Lily's tuition yourself. I need to pay off the loan on my new car." But she had money for plane tickets to the Maldives. I didn't reply. I just flipped my phone face-down on the table. Lily asked quietly, "Dad, does Mom not want us anymore?" "Mom just doesn't want Dad anymore. She'll always be your mom." Even as I said it, the words felt hollow. What kind of mother wouldn't even pay for her daughter's tuition? Halfway through the meal, my phone rang again. This time it was Robert. I answered, and he immediately launched into a tirade. "Listen here, Lucas Gray. My daughter letting you walk away with nothing was being generous!" "The house is in my name. Don't think you're getting a cent!" "And Lily—don't send her to our family! We're not raising her for you!" He ranted for a full three minutes. I didn't say a word back. Because all I could think about was that line of text above his head. 62 years old, three months from now, gas poisoning. "What, are you mute?" Robert shouted into the phone. "Yeah. I've gone mute." I hung up. Lily had finished all her pizza. Her hands were greasy, and she was wiping her mouth with a napkin. "Dad, did Mr. Miller yell at you again?" "No, sweetheart. He said he misses you." Lily tilted her head, thinking. "But last time Mr. Miller said I was a waste of money." A six-year-old. She remembered everything. I paid the bill and walked Lily home, holding her hand. My phone pinged with a notification from the delivery app. The courier account I'd registered yesterday had been approved. Starting tomorrow, I'd be a delivery driver. Security guard wages were too low, and factory shift work was too rigid—I wouldn't be able to pick Lily up from school. Delivery work was the only option. Flexible hours, and the more I worked, the more I earned. Back at our rental apartment, Lily fell asleep quickly. I sat on the edge of the bed and scrolled through my phone's photo album. There were still pictures from our wedding. Vivian in her rented wedding dress, smiling brightly. Back then she'd said, "Lucas, we're definitely going to have a good life together." Seven years of marriage. The hard times finally ended—and she left. I deleted every photo of Vivian from the album. Not a single one left. Then I opened the delivery app and checked tomorrow's weather forecast. Light rain. Rainy days meant more orders. Time to hustle. On my first day as a delivery driver, I witnessed the full spectrum of humanity in this city. I left at seven in the morning after dropping Lily off at kindergarten. At the entrance, Lily clung to the hem of my jacket and wouldn't let go. "Dad, can you pick me up this afternoon?" "Yes, sweetheart. Dad promises." I rode my electric scooter to the commercial district and started accepting orders. The first delivery was an Americano for an office worker in a high-rise. When I handed it to her, she didn't even look up. She grabbed the coffee and shut the door. Above her head, it read: [29 years old, twelve years from now, liver cancer.] I bit my lip and said nothing. This wasn't something I could control. Nor should I. 2 During the lunch rush, I completed twelve orders in a row. My legs were sore. I sat on the curb, eating bread. My phone buzzed with a news alert: Renowned businesswoman Sophia Quinn dies of organ failure at age 69. Sophia Quinn. That name was all too familiar. In high school, her granddaughter had been my classmate. Once, she'd invited me to her house, and I'd seen her grandmother. I told her she had eight hours left. She lasted exactly eight hours. Afterward, Sophia gave me five million dollars. That money paid for my college education and made me believe my life was finally turning around. Then, the second year after graduation, I married Vivian. A woman from a small mountain village who'd clawed her way out and was determined to climb higher. The first time Robert met me, he asked, "How many properties does your family own?" I said none. The smile faded from his face. But back then, Vivian had said, "Robert, Lucas treats me well, and he has capital. That's enough." Was it enough? Seven years of marriage. I spent every cent of Sophia's five million dollars on Vivian's graduate school, Vivian's startup, Vivian's luxury car to keep up appearances. Five million dollars. Gone without a trace. What did I get in return? A Maldives Instagram post saying "The rest of my life with you" to another man. At two in the afternoon, my phone rang. It was Vivian. "Just letting you know—I'm pregnant. Expenses are high, so I won't be giving you a cent of child support for Lily anymore." Pregnant. We'd been divorced less than a week, and she was pregnant. No need to calculate when this baby was conceived. "Vivian, you cheated during our marriage." "Don't make it sound so ugly. Caleb and I didn't officially get together until after you moved out." Caleb. That was her young new boyfriend. Her tone was calm as she said this. I didn't hang up. I was waiting for her to say something—anything—about Lily. Even just asking "How's Lily doing lately?" would've been enough. She didn't ask. After telling me she was pregnant, she hung up. I set my phone down. The rain had stopped. Sunlight broke through the clouds and shone on my soaked courier uniform. I stood up. Time to keep working. On my third day of deliveries, I received a strange order. The address was an upscale complex in the the Southside. The notes said: Please ring the doorbell three times. Do not knock. I rang the doorbell three times. The door opened. A woman in her forties appeared. She wore a silk nightgown and a pearl necklace. As she reached for the food, I accidentally glanced up. The text above her head made me freeze. [45 years old, two days from now, strangled to death by husband.] My hand jerked. I nearly dropped the bag. "What's wrong?" She looked at me. "Nothing." I handed her the food and turned to leave. After two steps, I stopped. "Um—" I turned back. The woman was still standing in the doorway, rummaging through the bag. "Does your husband treat you well?" She looked up, her eyes guarded. "Why are you asking that?" "No reason. Just wondering. Please... be careful." I got on my scooter and left. That night, I couldn't sleep. I kept thinking about that woman's face. There was a faint bruise on her face, covered with foundation. But I'd been close enough during the delivery to see it. The next day, I received another order to the same address. Same person. This time when she opened the door, there was a fresh cut on her face, running from her brow to her temple. The text above her head had changed. [45 years old, one day from now, strangled to death by husband.] I handed her the food. My grip was tight. "Ma'am, you need to call the police." "Call them for what?" Her voice was soft. "Your husband hit you, didn't he?" She looked at me for a moment, then shut the door. I stood outside and heard a man's voice from inside: "Who was it?" "Delivery," she said. "Don't order delivery anymore. I'll cook for you." The man's voice sounded gentle. I got on my scooter and sat outside the complex entrance for ten minutes. Then I pulled out my phone and dialed 91

"Hello, 14 Maple Gardens, Building 302, the Southside. There's domestic violence happening. The woman has head injuries." "Are you the victim?" "No, I'm a delivery driver. I saw it." "Understood. We'll send someone to investigate." I didn't know if the police could change anything. But the text said "one day from now." I had to do something. 3 The next day at noon, I saw a local news headline while scrolling— "Man at Maple Gardens, The Southside, Detained for Domestic Violence. Woman Sent to Hospital for Treatment." She didn't die. The text above her head must have changed. I wasn't certain—I couldn't see the text of people in news articles. But she was alive. That was enough. That day, I completed eight extra deliveries. Earned enough for a week's worth of Lily's living expenses. On my fifteenth day of deliveries, Robert blocked me outside Vivian's complex. He stood in front of my scooter. "Lucas Gray, have you no shame? Vivian says you're demanding three thousand dollars a month in child support?" "The court ordered it." "Court or no court, you're just a delivery driver. Does raising a kid really cost three thousand?" "Vivian's pregnant, and Caleb's expenses are high. Can't you ask for less?" I looked at the text above his head. Still the same line. [62 years old, two and a half months from now, gas poisoning.] The countdown was ticking closer every day. "Vivian—" her voice came from behind. She walked out of the complex with a tall, stylishly dressed young man beside her. That was Caleb. My first time seeing him. He wore designer streetwear, limited-edition sneakers, and his hair was perfectly styled. Above his head: [26 years old, four years from now, car accident.] When Vivian saw me, she hesitated. "What are you doing here?" "Picking up Lily's things. She left some clothes at your place." Vivian frowned and said to Caleb, "Wait for me in the car." Caleb didn't move. He looked me up and down and sneered. "So this is your ex-husband? He looks pretty rough. No wonder you weren't into him." He was five years younger than me, with the spoiled attitude of a trust fund kid. I wasn't interested in arguing with him. Vivian tossed me a plastic bag. Inside were three of Lily's old outfits and a stuffed bunny missing an ear. It was Lily's favorite toy. Robert had cut off the ear. He'd said girls shouldn't play with such delicate things—it made them weak. Lily had been only four years old then. She'd cried for an entire afternoon. I took the bag and turned to leave. Robert spoke up again. "Lucas Gray, stop right there. Let's settle this child support matter." "The court ordered three thousand. You pay three thousand." "Three thousand? Why don't you just rob us? Vivian's expecting now, and Caleb needs to invest in—" "That's your family's problem." Robert started cursing again. "Let me tell you something—my daughter's money is our family's money. You, an outsider, don't get a cent!" I didn't respond. I hung the plastic bag on my handlebars and started my scooter. Robert kept shouting behind me. Caleb stood off to the side, playing with his phone, completely indifferent. Vivian didn't say a single word in my defense. Not one. That night, Lily fell asleep hugging the one-eared bunny. I sat by the window and counted this month's earnings. Fifteen days of deliveries: forty-eight hundred dollars. Subtract fifteen hundred for rent, twelve hundred for Lily's kindergarten tuition, a thousand for food, scooter charging fees, phone bill. One hundred and ten dollars left. One hundred and ten dollars. That was the total balance my daughter and I had left in this city. My phone buzzed. Vivian sent a text: "I'll be a few days late with this month's child support. Caleb's got his eye on a watch, so I need to buy it for him first." I put my phone under my pillow. Didn't reply. 4 I stared at the long crack in the ceiling and made a decision. I couldn't let this ability go to waste. Years ago, Sophia had given me five million dollars for one reading. How many people in this city wanted to know how they'd die? How many would pay to change their fate? I was done playing the saint. I was going to use these eyes to support my daughter and me. I spent three days working out a plan. I couldn't just tell people how they'd die like I did as a kid. Too scary. Too risky. I registered a short video account called "Delivery Guy Talks Health." The concept was simple: every day, I'd film a segment about real encounters I had while delivering food. Of course, I changed all the details. My first video: "Today I delivered to a woman with bruises on her face. Let's talk about how to seek help if you're experiencing domestic violence." Combined with the news story from Maple Gardens, the video got over fifty thousand views. I didn't mention anything supernatural. I just talked about the people I "saw," then packaged it as common sense. ... Two weeks later, I delivered a three-hundred-dollar order to an office building downtown. A three-hundred-dollar delivery. I'd never seen that before. When I opened it, it was afternoon tea for an entire office floor. The receptionist told me to leave it on the desk. As I was unloading the boxes, the conference room door was open. Inside sat a circle of people. At the center was a man in his early forties, wearing a sharp suit with a commanding presence. Above his head: [43 years old, one year from now, cerebral hemorrhage.] Next to him stood a little boy, about four or five years old, playing on an iPad. Above the boy's head: [5 years old, today, anaphylactic shock.] Today. I set down the box and glanced at the order notes: [Nut allergy. All items must be nut-free.] The order had been placed by the receptionist. I opened one of the cake boxes and checked the ingredients list. Almond flour. "Hey, that cake—" The receptionist had already grabbed a box and was heading toward the conference room. I rushed over and snatched the box from her hands. "What are you doing?" The receptionist jumped, glaring at me. "This cake has almond flour. Your notes said nut allergy." The girl froze, then flipped through the ingredients list. "Oh... I didn't notice..." The man in the suit walked out of the conference room. "What's going on?" The receptionist's face went pale. "Mr. Hayes, the cakes contain nuts. I missed it..." Mr. Hayes glanced at the cake, then at his son playing on the iPad in the conference room. He took a deep breath, visibly shaken. "You're the delivery driver?" He looked at me. "Yes." "What's your name?" "Lucas Gray." Mr. Hayes had his assistant remove all the cakes and reorder. He called me into the hallway and handed me a thick stack of cash. "Thank you. My son's nut allergy is severe. Last time he had an accidental exposure, he was in the ICU for four hours." I felt the weight of the envelope. At least two thousand dollars inside. More than I'd make in three days of deliveries. "Mr. Hayes, I don't want the money. But I'd like to ask you something." "Go ahead." "Have you been getting frequent headaches lately? Have you had it checked out?" Mr. Hayes's expression changed. His eyes sharpened. "How do you know?" "I meet a lot of people doing deliveries. At your age, with high work stress, high blood pressure is common. I'd suggest getting a brain CT scan." Perfectly worded. No one would suspect a delivery driver's well-meaning advice. Mr. Hayes stared at me for five seconds. "Lucas Gray, what did you do before this?" "I ran a small business." He nodded and shoved the money into my pocket. "Take it. And give me your contact info."

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