Fluorescent light sliced into his pupils and somewhere in the distance Mick heard the clattering of metal. Voices swirled about his head, echoing and receding. He smelled the disinfectant-permeated air just before the pain stabbed his abdomen, and unconsciousness dragged him back under.

He was surrounded by darkness when he woke again. His tongue was thick when he swiped it across his dry lips. He focused on the line of light under the double doors. As his eyes acclimatized to the dim, grey surroundings he became aware of heavy breathing from a bed opposite his. He must be on a hospital ward. Pieces of memory returned. He’d been on a night out with the fellas when he’d doubled over in pain. Paul had laughed, at first. “Can’t take the booze these days eh, Mick?” Then Paul’s voice rose an octave. “Mick? Mick! Shit! Someone! Help!”

Mick knew he drank too much. He supposed he’d brought this, whatever it was, on himself. But passing 60 had depressed him more than he’d expected. He brooded about what he had to show for his time on Earth. His wife, Carol, had left him years ago, for a man he’d once considered a friend. His daughter loved him so much she lived on the other side of the world. Years of repetitive factory work had gifted him pain in his joints and a bad back, with only retirement on a low-paying pension to look forward to. He knew he was being down on himself, Carol always said he focused too much on the negative, but sometimes he thought the world would do just as well without him. He allowed a few silent tears to slide down his face before he drifted off.

Next morning when the surgeon appeared, Mick noted her razor-straight black hair and sharp, dark eyes. She was eager to thoroughly explain the surgery that had saved his life. His spleen was enlarged and had ruptured and he’d needed an emergency operation.

Something about the doctor tugged at his memory. He hadn’t thought of it in years, but as she spoke, another face superimposed itself over hers, and it was 1978 all over again: a crying woman, baby clutched to her soaking chest.

He’d been 20, on his first job with the cargo company. A gale had hit as they crossed the South China Sea and they’d spotted the fishing boat, overloaded with people, sinking fast.

Not all the crew had wanted to get involved. “Refugees aren’t our problem,” Tommo had grunted. “Let them sort their own mess out!” But their captain had disagreed.

When they drew close, the sounds of chanting and prayer pierced the noise of the storm. He never forgot that eerie cacophony, or his first sight of the people, packed together, lips peeled back in fear. Wind dragged at him, rain splattered in his eyes, but he pulled a baby from the water. He turned her upside down and slapped her back while water streamed from her mouth.

Later, her mother had clutched his hands, uttered thanks over and over in a waterfall of words, her Vietnamese made understandable by their situation, her obvious relief mixed with terror. The baby was a girl. Mick gathered she was named Luisa. The woman’s jabbering made him uncomfortable and he’d shaken his head, gestured at her to stop. He’d just done what anyone should do.

Coming back to the present, he shook the surgeon’s hand.

“Thank you, Doctor.”

Here was a real hero. Someone who spent her life saving others. Silently, he thanked God for the realization that he wasn’t ready to die yet. He lifted his head from the pillow and the doctor’s name badge came into focus. Luisa, it said. It couldn’t be…could it?

Tricia Lowther grew up in Liverpool, England. Her flash fiction, poetry, and short stories have appeared in numerous online and print venues, including: Mslexia, Writer’s Forum, and Event Magazine. She’s had nonfiction published widely, including in The Guardian, New Republic, and Ms. Magazine.