Published: 2025-09-04

Larry watched television in the living room while his father, Jack, made dinner in the kitchen.

Jack’s telephone vibrated in his pocket as he cut carrots for a soup. He was absorbed in his duty and chose to ignore it, but the caller was persistent. After putting the knife down and wiping his hands on the apron, he reached into his pocket and answered the call.

“Mr. Jack Fisher, I don’t know you, and you don’t know me, but listen attentively, your son Larry is going to die of terminal illness tomorrow. There is nothing you can do, except to be with him. I would advise you to precisely do that.” The caller said. “Whoa—whoa. Who is this?” Jack said.

The caller hung up.

Jack rushed to the living room to check on his son; he was still sitting in front of the TV. He combed the room with his eyes from left to right but nothing was out of place. The door and windows were locked. Suddenly, Jack felt a pull on his apron as if gravity wanted to drive it to the floor. “Daddy, is dinner ready yet?” It was his son. “Not yet, kiddo… Are you hurt?” Larry gave a little shrug and said, “I’m OK. I’m just a little hungry.” before going back to watch TV.

Jack stood in the doorway with a dazed expression before going back to the kitchen.

That night, Jack and his son ate dinner together, and later he put him to sleep. The anonymous call was forgotten.

The next day, Jack woke up early, took his son to school, and then went to work as he did every day. Around eleven in the morning, Jack received a different type of call.

“Mr. Fisher? The school’s principal speaking. It’s about your son.”
“Is something wrong?”
“I’m afraid that may be the case, Mr. Fisher. Your son collapsed moments ago.”
“What? Is he OK? What happened?”
“We are unsure. Rest assured, we called an ambulance; he is on the way to the emergency room right now. His teacher, Miss Smith, accompanies him. I suggest you head there as soon as possible.”

Jack ran.

The emergency room was filled with toddlers’ cries and parents’ tender words. Jack approached the reception desk and asked for his son, “His name is Larry Fisher. I’m his father. He came accompanied by his teacher, Miss Brenda Smith. Can I please see him?” The receptionist took a look at his records and let him in, “Second to last bed on the right.” He said.

Jack rushed through the doors and into the caring room. Plasters and bandages decorated the little bodies of the patients; Jack hoped this would be the case for his Larry, too. His heart sank when he saw his son unconscious and connected to all kinds of monitors.

“Mr. Fisher,” Miss Smith said. “I’m so happy to see you.”
“My son… What happened?”
“We don’t know, they won’t tell me. It happened during class. Everything was going all right, and then he collapsed.”
“Jesus.”

Jack paused for a moment and took a deep breath, as if trying to grasp the situation.

“Miss Smith, I sincerely thank you for what you did for my son; I could never thank you enough. Nevertheless, I wouldn’t want to cause you any more worries. You should get back to school; the principal is probably waiting for you to return.”
“Very well, but if you need anything, please call.”
“I will.”

Miss Smith left, and Jack was left alone with his son. How could my Larry, a boy so cheerful, be now so quiet — Jack thought.

As the sky tones over the hospital went from orange to dark blue, a doctor slid the curtain providing the limited amount of privacy for Jack and his son.

“Good Evening. Are you the kid’s father?”
“Yes, I am. Jack Fisher.”
“Pleasure to meet you, sir.”
“What’s wrong with my boy?”
“It’s hard to tell. He appeared to suffer a stroke.”
“A stroke? But he’s just a kid.”
“It may surprise you to hear it, Mr. Fisher, but pediatric cardiovascular issues are as prevalent as in any other population.”
“Is he going to get better?”
“I’ll be honest with you, Mr. Fisher. We are doing everything we can. We’ll need more imaging before giving you an exact diagnosis, but this kind of issue in a kid this age is usually congenital.”
“Which means…?”
“Which means the options are very limited, Mr. Fisher.”

Jack stood up, “Are you telling me my son is gonna die?”
“Please calm down, Mr. Fisher. Nobody is saying that. As I already told you, we still need more imaging.”

Jack bit his lower lip and looked at his son, dormant, still.

“OK.” He said.
“Now, Mr. Fisher, I understand your concern for your son, but I assure you, we are doing everything we can. Visiting time is almost over. Why won’t you go home and get a good night's sleep? Your son will need you in the morning.”
“Yeah. I’ll do that. Thank you, doctor.”

Jack returned home, not because he wanted to, but because he knew the doctor was right; there was nothing for him to do at the hospital, and he needed to be rested to properly take of his son the next morning.

He made a packet of dry noodles, he took a shower, he shaved, he went to bed, he tried to sleep, he couldn’t sleep. He took his cellphone to see the time. It was 9:27. Just as he grabbed it in his hand, it started vibrating; it was from the hospital.

“Do I speak with Jack Fisher, Larry Fisher’s father?”
“Yes, that is correct. Did something happen to my boy?”
“Mr. Fisher, your son Larry went into cardiac arrest at 9:18; we tried everything we could, but we couldn’t reanimate him. I’m very sorry, Mr. Fisher.”

Whatever the caller said next, Jack didn’t hear. His ears were ringing, and his arms fell to the floor; the cellphone hit the tile floor and turned itself off.

His boy, his precious only son, all Jack had. It was gone.

Jack looked at the cellphone, lying on the floor with its screen broken, and then it came to him like a bullet to the face: the call. Yesterday, he received a call from someone saying his son was gonna die today. How could somebody know that? His son’s death was no accident, no mistake, no God’s cruel joke. No, it was premeditated. A murder!

Jack picked up his phone and rushed to the studio. His mind was flooded with all sorts of thoughts, his temple throbbing, his face full of hate. He sat in front of the computer typing furiously. He connected his phone and dumped the call log. It was 8:32 when he received the call; with that information, he could hack into the nearest cellphone tower and pinpoint the call, then he would pay him a visit.

The terminal spat some coordinates in fluorescent green over a black background. Jack typed a command and quickly turned it into an address: 555, Front Street, New Town. Jack opened the drawer to his right and took a Glock 19 out. Let’s go, he thought.

It was an old house in a cookie-cutter neighborhood. The front-yard was overgrown with weeds, and all lights were turned off; the place was abandoned, or at least that was the impression its occupant wanted to cause. Jack tucked the gun in the back of his pants and got out of the car. He would enter the house blasting through the front door; he didn’t have a plan.

He pushed the door, and it opened; no need to blast it. The living room was bare, but somebody clearly lived there. John took the gun out and climbed the stairs.

There was blue light coming out of the room at the end of the corridor; someone was in there. Jack strolled towards the door and opened it slowly. There was nobody in the room. Suddenly, the door slammed into Jack’s face. He fell to the ground, the Glock flew across the room. A man was standing behind the door. He ran towards the gun, but Jack grabbed one of his legs, tripping him over. The man tried to free himself, but Jack quickly jumped over him.

“You killed my son, you bastard. You killed my boy.”

Jack kept punching with all his might while the man covered his face with his forearms. He didn’t try to defend himself.

Jack got up and went to recover the pistol. He pointed the gun at the man and said, “I’ll blow your brains out.” Jack stared at the man laying on the floor with disgust, wanting to pull the trigger, but he still had many questions.

“Why. Before I kill you. Tell me why you killed my boy.”

The man stayed still, his gaze fixed on Jack.

“I asked you why you killed my boy, damn it!”
“I didn’t kill your boy.”
“Yes, you did it, you bastard. I received a call from this very room. You told me my boy was as good as dead.”
“Terminal illness. That’s what I said.”
“My boy wasn’t sick. He was healthy as a bull.”
“Oh, yeah? Then, tell me, Mr…”
“Fisher, motherfucker, Jack Fisher. You knew my name yesterday.”
“Mr. Fisher. How did your son died?”
“You know how he died, because you killed him. His little heart stopped. That’s what happened, motherfucker.”
“Mr. Fisher, no one is capable of stopping people’s hearts.”

Jack remained silent for a moment.

“Then how did you know?”
“Mia told me.”
“And who the fuck is she so I can put a bullet in her face too?”
“Not a she, Mr. Fisher. An it. Look at the monitor, she is right there.”

Jack walked backwards towards the computer at the other side of the room. There was a mailing app open, and all emails came from the same sender: Mia.

“I don’t understand.” Jack said.
“Read the mail and you will.”

Jack opened one of the hundreds of emails. “John Priest II, age 14, is going to die tomorrow. He lives with her mother, Judith Priest; his contact number is 555-7325.” Jack turned to the man.

“What is this?”
“That, Mr. Fisher, is how I know who dies when.”

Jack searched through the emails until he found the one he was looking for. “Larry Fisher, age 7 is going to die tomorrow. He lives with his father, Jack Fisher; his contact number is 555-3467.” Jack took his left hand to his mouth in disbelief. Suddenly, he felt sick.

“Is this a joke to you? You sit here shattering parents’ hearts by telling them their kids are going to die?”
“Shatter their dreams? Mr. Fisher, I give them hope. I offer them the gift of being by the side of their loved ones in their final moments.”
“You’re a sick man. How does this Mia know?”
“My guess? It’s a quantum computer. With the amount of data we have nowadays, we can predict anything. Medical records, consumption habits, tests results; it’s all digital records now, with enough computing power, it could be done.”
“This is insane. No one has that much computing power!”
“The Pentagon? NASA? The tech billionaires with hundreds of data centers spread over the world? Of course it can be done.”
“You are missing the point here. You chose to play God’s little rogue brother; you are responsible for the death of these kids.”
“I’m willing to live with that.”
“Oh, yeah? I hope you are willing to die for that then.”

As Jack walked towards the man, a picture frame fell in front of him. He picked it up. It was a picture of the man in a baseball field; next to him was a kid wearing a baseball uniform.

“Is this your kid?” Jack asked.
“It is.”
“Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? You should be with your family instead of here with sick motives, playing God.”
“I don’t have a family anymore Mr. Fisher. I too got the call one day.”

A notification sound reverberated through the room. After that, there was total silence.

Jack tucked the gun in the back of his pants again and walked towards the door. He stood in the doorway with the back still to the man and said the following before leaving:

“You got new mail.”

THE END.