When I was 13, I died, but two minutes and eleven seconds my heartbeat stopped and my

pulse was gone and I was dead.

One second I was racing my bike along the sidewalk and made a turn to the left to

shortcut across the road.

The next I stared up at a blank ceiling, wrapped in bandages and wires and tubes while some

machine beat next to me in a steady rhythm.

I had no recollection of what happened in between.

It didn't take long for this little gap in memory to be filled.

My father still can't stop telling the story any chance he gets.

He tells it during dinner, during long car trips, during TV commercial breaks.

He tells it to friends and colleagues and strangers at the bus stop.

Remember that time you got hit by that car, ruined a panic when we got the call?

They said your heart stopped.

You were dead you know, two minutes and eleven seconds.

I guess that's his way of coping with a traumatic experience.

Two minutes and eleven seconds, two minutes and eleven seconds, two minutes and eleven

seconds.

It didn't take long for that number to start haunting me.

Soon it came for me every night.

The dream started a few months after the accident.

My body was already on its way to complete recovery.

I had left the hospital bed behind and returned home.

...