I Muted My Childhood Best Friend for a Year. Then My Dad Had a Heart Attack.

Lao Zhao’s WeChat had been sitting in my muted list for almost a year.

We’d grown up wearing the same pair of pants. In the late nineties we were both in high school in the county town. He boarded; I commuted from home. One night I came down with acute gastroenteritis. The dorm gate was locked, so he climbed over the wall, knocked on my window, and pedaled me to the hospital on his old 28-inch bicycle. I was groaning in pain on the back rack. He turned his head and snapped, “Stop howling, we’re almost there,” then took off his jacket and shoved it under my head. The jacket ended up covered in vomit. It took him three days to wash it.

I paid him back by writing three love letters. He was chasing the academic rep in the class next door. He’d spent a week squeezing out two lines: “Hello. I think you’re pretty nice.” I rewrote it into three pages, quoted the Book of Songs, and used parallelism. The girl handed the letter to the homeroom teacher, and Lao Zhao was made to stand through a whole class as punishment. When he came back he said, “What the hell did you write? She didn’t even finish it.” I said, “Then write it yourself next time.” He said, “Forget it. You write it. At least your handwriting’s nice.”

That was our friendship. Vomit on the back rack of a 28-inch bicycle, and three pages of the Book of Songs.

Later I got into a school in the provincial capital; he stayed in the county town. I got a job in a work unit; he went into sales. When I got married, he gave six hundred. When he got married, I gave a thousand. When the gap started, I couldn’t say. Probably the year I was promoted to deputy section chief and he was still doing sales. At a dinner table he was pouring drinks for everyone. When he got to me, his hand paused, and he smiled and said, “Leader, as you like.” I laughed too and said, “Get lost.” But after that “get lost” came out, even I felt it sounded a little dry.

After that, how often he messaged me went from once a week to once a month, from “Come out for a drink” to “You there?”, from “You there?” to a like on Moments. My reply speed went from instant to half a day, from half a day to overnight. He never asked why. I never explained.

Last summer he sent: “You there?” I saw it and didn’t reply. The next day he sent another: “Nothing, just asking.” I replied: “Was busy yesterday. What’s up?” He said: “Nothing. Talk another day.” I said: “Okay.”

After I sent that “Okay,” I muted him.

I didn’t hate him. I was afraid. Afraid his next line would be “Do you have anything to spare right now?” At that time I’d just moved, the mortgage was pressing down so hard I could barely breathe, my kid was about to start middle school, the school-selection fee still wasn’t settled, and my father-in-law had just come home after heart bypass surgery. Every cent in my pocket had a label on it. Not one said Lao Zhao.

The class reunion was on National Day. Lao Zhao came and sat in the corner at the table by the door. I sat at the middle table, next to Lao Qian. Lao Qian was in the building materials business and drove a black Mercedes. At the table, no matter who clinked glasses with him, he could name the man’s wife. Lao Zhao came over to toast. He reached our table and first toasted Lao Qian: “Boss Qian, my younger brother worked for you. Thanks for looking after him.” Lao Qian said, “Oh, oh, good, good, good.” Lao Zhao turned to me. He got his glass halfway up. I said, “You and me really need to do this?” He smiled, downed the drink, and said, “All right then. Enjoy your food.” Then he went back to the corner table.

I didn’t look at him again for the rest of the meal. When it broke up, he was smoking by the door. He saw me come out, stubbed out the cigarette, and said, “I’m taking a cab. Want a ride if it’s on the way?” I said, “I drove.” He said, “All right. Drive safe.” I said, “You too.”

He walked east. I walked west. After a dozen steps I looked back. He was standing by the road, head down, looking at his phone. The screen lit his face. He’d gotten thinner. I turned my head back and pressed the car key.

At the end of November, my dad was hospitalized with a heart attack. I squatted in the hospital corridor all night. The next day he had to be transferred, and I needed to contact cardiology at a city hospital. I scrolled my contacts from A to Z. Of those who’d pounded their chests at dinner tables saying “Anything, just say the word,” I called three. Two didn’t answer. One answered and said, “Oh, I’m out of town at a meeting. I’ll ask around for you.” Then nothing happened. Lao Qian did answer. He said, “Don’t worry, brother. I’ll ask around.” Two hours later he called back: “Beds are tight over there. Let me think of something else.” I said, “Okay. Thanks for the trouble.” He said, “No trouble.” Then nothing.

The next afternoon, an unknown number called. I answered. The person said, “Brother Lin? I’m Lao Zhao’s colleague. Lao Zhao said your dad needs a transfer. He asked me to help you contact cardiology at our hospital. Go straight to Director Liu. I’ve already spoken to him.”

I froze for two seconds and said, “Which Lao Zhao?” The person said, “Zhao Zhiqiang. Aren’t you two childhood friends?”

I hung up and opened WeChat. Lao Zhao’s chat was still stuck on that “Okay” from half a year ago. I typed a line: “Thanks.” Deleted it. Typed again: “I’ll treat you to a meal sometime.” Deleted it. Finally I sent: “About the hospital, thanks.” He replied with one word: “Yeah.”

The day my dad was discharged, I went to the supermarket, bought a box of milk and a bag of apples, and drove to Lao Zhao’s place. His wife opened the door and said he was out driving for Didi and wouldn’t be back until evening. I put the things by the door and said, “For the kid.” His wife said, “Come in and sit for a while?” I said, “No. I have something else.”

On the way downstairs I wondered whether his wife knew about him helping me with the hospital. Had he told her, “That childhood friend of mine, the one who used to write love letters for me”? Had he said, “He’s doing well now. Let’s not go bothering him”? Had he said, “He muted me. I know.”

I didn’t know. I didn’t ask.

Later I took his WeChat out of muted. Didn’t send a message. Just unmuted him. A few days later he sent a Pinduoduo bargain link. I clicked it. A few days after that he sent “Vote for my son.” I voted. He didn’t say thanks. I didn’t ask.

This Spring Festival he sent me a red packet: 6.66. I sent back 8.88. He said, “You lost out.” I said, “Get lost.”

That “get lost” came out much smoother than last year.

A few days ago I was scrolling my contacts, saw Lao Qian’s name, and clicked in. The chat history stopped at last November: “Let me think of something else.” I muted him too.

Then I opened Lao Zhao’s chat and typed four words: “Come out for a drink.” He replied instantly: “Which day?” I said, “You decide.” He said, “Friday. Street stall. My treat.” I said, “Treat my ass. How much can you make driving Didi?” He said, “Then split it.” I said, “Fine.”

Friday night we ate skewers and drank four bottles of beer. He talked about his son’s bad grades. I talked about my dad recovering okay. We didn’t talk about borrowing money, didn’t talk about the hospital, didn’t talk about muting. When the bill came, he grabbed for the QR code. I pushed his hand away and said, “Next time it’s your treat.” He said, “Then don’t order so many kidneys.” I said, “I do what I want.”

On the way home I got his WeChat: “Tell me when you’re home.” I replied: “Home.” He replied: “All right. Sleeping.”

I put down my phone and saw the box of milk on the coffee table. It was the same box I’d bought for his son. He’d brought it back to me the next day, with a sticky note on it: “My kid doesn’t drink this brand. Take it back and drink it yourself.”

I peeled off the sticky note and put the milk in the fridge. I finished it before it expired.