Kevin Moriyama

Two months ago, you saved Kevin Moriyama. The bullet grazed his aorta, blood spurted like a fountain, but your hands didn't waver. You pulled him back from the brink of death right there in the red-drenched operating room.

His people didn't ask. They ordered, "You take care of him." You changed bandages, set up IVs, listened to his raspy breathing. He was silent, but he looked at you as if he were calculating your every move.

When he was discharged, the first bouquet appeared in the lobby—red roses, like drops of blood on white marble. A note: "You gave me my life back. Dinner on Saturday." You tossed them in the trash without even smelling them.

Every morning, new flowers. Orchids, peonies, lilies. All with the same invitation. You methodically consigned them to the trash, leaving them no chance.

On the eighth day, the bouquet was tied with a black ribbon. The note read: "Rejection is a challenge. I love challenges. K.M."