Not Human

The door closed.

The steel security door shut with a dull thud, temporarily shutting the chaotic world outside.

Darnell turned around to face Lin An, his expression unbearably troubled.

"Bro, I have a question for you."

"Yeah?"

"That Crips gunman you killed at the furniture factory..."

Darnell leaned closer and lowered his voice, as if there were a third person in the house.

"And that bag of money we picked up in the Abandoned Industrial Zone—the money the Rainstorm Gang lost..."

He swallowed.

"Did those two things make the Rainstorm Gang start fighting the Crips?"

Before Lin An could answer, Darnell continued, speaking faster and faster.

"The Crips lost a man, so they sent people to the Abandoned Industrial Zone. The Rainstorm Gang lost their money, and they thought the Crips had stolen it, so they went past the repair shop to get revenge and killed some Crips. Then the Crips got revenge, and then they fought every night, and then they broke someone's leg at the gas station, and then..."

He stopped and caught his breath.

"Bro, did we cause all the shootouts on Jamaica Avenue these past few days?"

As he asked, the face of a thirty-eight-year-old man was filled with fear.

The fear of Did I do something bad?

Lin An tilted his head, thought through the logic for a moment, and then laughed.

[How is this Black dude such a good person?]

[Too naive. Boring.]

"Darnell."

He spoke.

"Do you think the Rainstorm Gang are good people?"

Darnell froze for a moment.

"The Rainstorm Gang?"

He thought it over.

"Of course not. They charge protection money, sell cocaine, and last month they broke Old Jensen's son's leg because Old Jensen couldn't pay."

"What about the Crips?"

"The Crips are even worse. They don't just sell cocaine—they also sell fake stuff cut with rat poison. Three people died in South Jamaica last year after using what they sold."

[Seriously? Drugs cut with rat poison?]

[As absurd as it sounds, that really does happen. Rat poison can make drug users think low-quality drugs are highly pure.]

[What if it kills someone?]

[People who use drugs will kill themselves even without rat poison. Who cares if junkies live or die?]

"Well, there you have it."

Lin An's voice was steady as he stated a fact that had been proven countless times, yet was still ignored by many.

"Gangs have never been good. They do all kinds of evil. They bully ordinary people, sell drugs, break the legs of people who can't pay protection money, and cut rat poison into cocaine."

He paused.

"Even if we hadn't taken that money, the Crips would have invaded the Jamaica Community."

He walked to the window, lifted the edge of the curtain, and looked down at the street where a shootout had just taken place.

The police cars were gone, and all the streetlights were out. Only the hood of Old Jensen's gray Ford still reflected the neon glow of the convenience store in the distance.

Taking territory was instinctive for them, like dogs marking their turf. If they didn't fight today, they'd fight tomorrow.

Their excuse could be money, pride, or someone glaring at someone else. It could be anything.

He let the curtain fall and turned back to Darnell.

"We just happened to toss a coin into their script. They chose to pick it up, chose to start fighting, and chose to keep fighting."

"So there's no reason to feel guilty... Besides, they're not even people. The ones who died were just stray Black dogs by the side of the road."

"Right."

Darnell thought for a moment.

"Then what about Old John..."

"That's none of your damn business!"

Lin An cut him off without hesitation.

Darnell choked, his mouth hanging open like a fish tossed onto shore.

"No, Bro, Old John is a good man!"

He looked so serious that he couldn't have been joking.

"He helped me before."

Lin An raised an eyebrow. Darnell held up one finger.

"Two winters ago, when my mom got sick, he drove her to the clinic in his beat-up Ford."

Darnell held up a second finger.

"And my sister last year..."

"All right, all right..."

Lin An sighed and interrupted him again.

"Wake me up early tomorrow. Before Old John goes to work."

"Why?"

"Because I'm going to fix your Old John's car, you idiot!"

Darnell froze.

He stood in the middle of the living room, mouth agape, eyes wide as two overcooked eggs. His thirty-eight-year-old face wore the foolish expression of an eighteen-year-old boy.

"You're... you're going to help Old John fix his car?"

"Was I not speaking English?"

Lin An tilted his head at him, smiling as if to say, What stupid thing are you talking about?

[One second: That's none of your damn business. The next: What time should I wake him up tomorrow?]

[He says it has nothing to do with him, but his actions say otherwise.]

[Is this that famous sharp tongue, soft heart thing? No, Lin An has a sharp tongue and a hard heart—but he makes an exception for his brothers.]

[Darnell: Didn't you just say Old John was putting on an act?]

[Lin An: I take it back, because he helped you.]

Darnell's eyes widened.

"Bro, I knew it!"

He rushed over and threw his arms around Lin An, lifting him clean off the ground with his enormous strength.

"I knew you were a good person. I knew it!"

"Put me down. You stink..."

"No, I don't stink. I put on deodorant tonight. I don't stink!"

Lin An hung in the air without changing his expression, like a cat being picked up by a black bear.

[I'm dying. Look at Lin An's face.]

[Lin An: I regret this. I'm not fixing the car anymore.]

[Darnell's strength is ridiculous. He can lift a grown man with one hand like a chicken.]

"Put me down."

Lin An's voice was as calm as if he were talking about the nice weather.

"Or I really won't fix the car, and I'll tell your mom you sneak stew from the fridge in the middle of the night."

Darnell immediately let go.

Lin An landed steadily, straightened his twisted collar, then raised his arm and sniffed his sleeve.

His brow furrowed.

"You really don't stink."

He conceded.

"I'm the one who smells now, after you rubbed off on me."

Darnell opened his mouth to argue, but Lin An had already turned around and stretched out on the sofa, covering himself with a blanket.

"Five fifty. Don't be late."

Darnell looked at Lin An, eyes closed and already asleep, scratched his head, then lowered his nose to his armpit and sniffed.

"I don't stink..."

He muttered and started back to his room. But just as Darnell's hand touched the doorknob, he suddenly stopped.

"Bro."

"What now?"

"You said just now... 'They're not even people. The ones who died were just stray Black dogs by the side of the road.'"

His voice grew quieter.

"I know the Rainstorm Gang and the Crips aren't good people, but they're people too. They have mothers."

The living room fell quiet.

Lin An's voice came from behind Darnell, steady and emotionless.

"Darnell."

"Yeah?"

"Your kindness is a good thing, but don't waste it on people who don't deserve it."

Darnell said nothing.

"When the Rainstorm Gang broke Old John's son's leg, did they think about the fact that he had a mother? When the Crips cut rat poison into cocaine, did they think about the fact that the people buying it had mothers?"

Lin An's voice didn't grow harsher or colder. He was simply stating a fact.

"I don't think they're people, because when they chose to do certain things, they gave up their right to be human."

"So..."

Lin An stood up again and spread his hands.

"I feel very happy when I kill dogs."

Darnell's hand slipped from the doorknob.

He turned around and looked at Lin An.

Lin An stood in the middle of the living room. Neon light spilled through the gap in the curtains, casting a line between light and shadow across his face.

[Lin An's morality: People are born good. If you're not good, you're not a person.]

[So by his logic, the Rainstorm Gang and the Crips aren't people anymore.]

[Because he sees what they do, not what they are.]

[In a way, it's a very pure view of good and evil.]

[He judges them by their actions, not their identity.]

[That's why he can kill gang members without a shred of guilt, yet get up early to fix a car because Old John once helped Darnell.]

[That's Lin An: crazy, but principled.]

Darnell fell silent for a few seconds.

Then he nodded.

"I understand."

He said it.

"But I still want to thank you for helping Old John."

"You already thanked me."

"Can't I thank you one more time?"

Six forty-five.

Old Jensen pushed open the apartment building's front door and stepped outside, his expression heavy.

He was a sixty-year-old Black man, slightly hunched, wearing a faded work jacket and carrying an old toolbox that held his lunch.

As he walked slowly toward his Ford, he had already prepared himself for the worst...

But then he saw the new side-view mirror on his old faithful car.

Its brand-new gray casing and clean glass reflected the sign of the convenience store across the street in the morning light.

He frowned, stepped closer, and reached out to touch it.

It was definitely new.

Even the seams around the connection were clean, as if it had just been installed.

He walked around to the front of the car to check the engine. When he opened the hood, he saw a sticker inside.

A cartoon bullet hole.

A round opening ringed with black cracks, with a line of tiny text beside it.

"OUCH!"

Old Jensen stared at the sticker and found himself smiling.

He reached out to touch it, then straightened up and looked around.

The street was quiet, and the morning mist had yet to clear. In the distance, a bus on Jamaica Avenue rumbled past.

He didn't see the person he had hoped to see.

Old Jensen looked away, lowered his gaze to the sticker again, and shook his head.

"Darnell."

He spoke softly.

"Had to be you, you little rascal."

He opened the car door and slid into the driver's seat.

The car was filled with the fresh scent of lemongrass.

Old Jensen froze for a moment, then took a deep breath.

"Well, would you look at that—you even sprayed it with perfume."

He started the car. The engine roared, then settled into a smooth purr.

He shifted into reverse and glanced at the new rearview mirror on his right.

"You little rascal."

He said it again, but there wasn't a trace of blame in his voice.

The Ford slowly backed out of the parking space, turned, and headed toward Jamaica Avenue.