In September 2026, the new school year had just begun. Allen was sixteen.
Allen loved basketball. He was a key player on the school team and its leading scorer.
The highest praise he had ever received came from his father: "Grow another ten centimeters, and you could play professionally."
So he trained even harder and drank a big glass of milk every morning-even though he disliked milk, everyone said it would help him grow taller.
Unlike his father, his mother was no sports fan. She knew little about basketball, but she often came to cheer him on. Sometimes she lost track of the action; once, she even cheered when the other team scored.
All in all, apart from a few teenage feelings he couldn't put into words, Allen had no major worries.
Training left him exhausted? He could sleep in on the weekend.
Didn't do well on a math quiz? He could review a little more next time.
The hardest thing was probably when the girl he liked replied, "Haha, you're so funny." He puzzled over it for ages, unable to tell whether she genuinely found him funny or just didn't want to keep talking.
Whenever people greeted him with the usual question about how he was doing, he always said, "Pretty good."
Until one day, something went wrong with Allen's body.
It was an ordinary Tuesday. Practice had barely begun, and everyone was still warming up. Allen dribbled while looking at the hoop, wondering how many points he could score in the scrimmage. Suddenly, a wave of agonizing pain hit him, as though his intestines had knotted inside his stomach.
"Coach, I need to go to the bathroom," Allen said, clutching his stomach.
"Go on. Don't take too long-we've got practice," the coach said, then called after him, "Less