Before We Forget Kindness

In a world ravaged by global nuclear fallout, I struggled to survive alongside my fragile, sweet-faced best friend, dodging one radiation storm after another. The route to the Central Safety Zone was blocked—we had no choice but to use two detonators to blast open the tunnel. Otherwise, we would be caught in the storm, our bodies rotting away until we either dissolved into blood sludge or turned into zombies. … In my previous life, I had risked everything to secure those detonators, only for my best friend to hand them over to a complete stranger without hesitation. "They have elderly people and children on their side too," she said earnestly. "One detonator can save many lives. Iris, you can't be selfish." I was so furious my blood pressure nearly exploded, but with no other option, I went straight into a horde of zombies to steal backup detonators. I lost an arm in the process, drenched in blood and barely standing. Yet, she complained that I was covered in gore and had frightened the children. After finally regrouping with the main convoy, I rushed to deliver the formula for anti-radiation medicine to the research institute so that more people could be saved. But she accused me of stealing supplies and trying to flee, which led to my expulsion from the base, and death, my body rotting away under the radiation. When I opened my eyes again, there was still one hour left before the radiation storm hit. I looked down at the two detonators in my hand, then at my pitiful, tear-brimmed best friend—and I smiled. Since she loved being a good person so much, this time, I would let her be one to her heart's content.

The Sullivan brothers had always treated me like I was their whole world. That changed the day I was diagnosed with an aggressive brain tumor. The pain soon grew unbearable, and I was told I might lose my memories if I opted for surgery. I reached out to the brothers. I did not want to forget them, and I needed their help. However, when the call connected, the only thing I heard was an icy, sharp voice. "Summer, it's Yvonne's birthday today. Can you not ruin it for once?" I blacked out from the pain. When I woke up in the hospital, there was a message from Yvonne on my phone. "Summer, the boys gave me these lucky charms for protection." Attached was a photo of three silver pendants, each engraved with the brothers' initials. I knew those pendants well. I had spent seven hours in the freezing rain just to get them blessed. That was the moment I gave up. I went abroad alone for the surgery, and with it, all my memories of the brothers faded away. I completely forgot about them until one day, three strangers knocked on my door, begging like madmen for my forgiveness.

When I'm in my senior year of high school, my mom, Bethany Stout, is diagnosed with uremia. Even after our family sells the house, we are still 300,000 dollars short on the dialysis fee. I pack my bags overnight, ready to go to work on an assembly line at an electronics factory. The class belle, Natasha Ferris, grabs my shirt tightly at the train station ticket gate. She's someone who usually blushes even when speaking a little loudly, but that day she forces a bank card into my hand. "The password is your birthday. Consider the money a loan. You're not allowed to miss the SAT." I say I may never be able to pay this money back in my entire life. With red-rimmed eyes, she scolds me, "Then pay me back slowly, but you cannot ruin your life just like this." Throughout the four years of college, she transfers me 800 dollars for food every single month without fail, and the note is always "eat more meat". Mom survives the kidney transplant surgery, and I also secure a guaranteed admission and enter a top-tier company. But Natasha cuts off all contact without any warning. Eight years later, I am the youngest partner at the major company, with an annual salary of ten million dollars. Yet, Natasha's name appears in a mockery video of a local matchmaking group. "Not only is this woman already 30 years old and has a sick mother, but she's also demanding 100,000 dollars as a wedding gift? Is she crazy or what?" When I watch the person in the video wearing old clothes, head lowered while enduring people's criticism, my eyes sting with tears. I push aside the signing ceremony for a ten-million-dollar project and pick up the bank card and my Social Security card. This time, it is my turn to catch Natasha when she falls.

Mom had one rule, and she never let it go: one good deed a day. When I was little, I saved my allowance for an entire year to buy a doll. Then some girl beside me whispered that she wanted one too, and Mom ripped it out of my arms. "Do one good deed a day. Give her the doll." Later, I barely made it into the best high school in the county. I didn't even get to be happy before Mom told me she'd already signed me up for trade school. "Do one good deed a day. The girl who just missed the cutoff is poor. Give her your spot." Later, at trade school, my roommates stole every cent I had for food and rent. I called Mom, sobbing. "Do one good deed every day. Giving them your money still counts as doing something good." Later, I got a part-time job and ended up sold as a bride to some family way out in the sticks. I texted Mom, begging her to save me. Her reply popped up a second later. [Marriage means sticking it out. Give them a healthy baby boy, and that should cover ten years of good deeds.]

Zoe Jensen's parents kick her out because she doesn't want to share them with Alice Reed. She ends up homeless on the streets. She ultimately dies of starvation. When she's reborn, she finds herself standing before Alice. The latter is crying and begging her. Zoe is delighted by this. Alice can have her parents if she wants them—Zoe doesn't want to lose her life because of them again!

There wasn't a package pickup station anywhere in our apartment complex. So out of goodwill, I turned my storage room into a pickup station. I took in packages, organized shelves, labeled everything, and stayed up late every night waiting for people to pick up their deliveries. Then one day, a resident showed up at my door and accused me of stealing her $3,000 gold necklace. "You signed for the delivery. Now it's gone. You had to have opened the package and swapped it out." Residents crowded the hallway, whispering behind my back. Not one person defended me. My stomach dropped. They were the ones complaining about packages getting stolen off their doorsteps. I was the one helping them. But over one baseless accusation, they turned on me instantly. I didn't argue. I just sent a message in the group chat: [Notice: Effective immediately, the One-Penny Pickup Station is officially closed. I will no longer accept, store, or manage packages for residents. Please make other pickup arrangements going forward.]