Type O — and his phone ringer has stayed at max for twenty years

Old Meng's phone has been at maximum volume for twenty years, and it is never silenced. Even in his sleep.

It is not a habit; it is discipline. Old Meng is RH-negative type O — "panda blood," as folk say. Fewer than three in a thousand Han Chinese carry this type. For a person with a rare blood type, his phone's ring is a lifeline for certain people somewhere in this city.

He learned he was panda blood in 2004, at twenty-eight, during a workplace blood drive. A week later the blood bank called, very polite: "Your blood type is quite special. We may need your help in the future — could we keep your contact information?" He agreed, thinking it a casual promise.

The first real summons came three years later, before dawn. The caller spoke at double speed: a new mother hemorrhaging, RH-negative O, the blood bank's stock short — could he come? He looked at his wife asleep beside him, grabbed his coat, and went out the door. The taxi driver heard the story and, foot on the gas, ran a yellow light — then refused the fare. That time he gave four hundred milliliters. Standing outside the donation station, watching the sunrise light up the blood bag until it glowed, he suddenly understood what "maximum ring volume" meant.

From that day on, his phone has never once been muted. His donation record strings dates behind his name: Valentine's Day, a typhoon night, the second day of the Lunar New Year, his daughter's birthday party... The most extreme time, he was away on a business trip, got the call for help, and came five hours back by high-speed rail without hesitating. The blood bank staff urged him not to put himself through it. "As long as I'm here," he said, "the blood comes fast."

Behind the "on call, always" is a self-discipline so strict it borders on harsh: no late nights, little alcohol, more frequent checkups than anyone. The blood bank staff say Old Meng is their most reliable reserve outside the refrigerator. His own phrasing is plainer: "My blood type — you could sweep the whole street and not find another. If I don't answer the phone, who will?"

Compassion takes many forms. One of them is a volume button that has not been turned back down in twenty years.

In twenty years, his blood has saved mothers hemorrhaging after childbirth, car-crash victims, children with leukemia. He doesn't know who they are — not a one. The parent of one rescued child tracked him down and insisted on a dinner; he couldn't refuse. Across the table the parent, eyes red, thanked him over and over. He picked up a bite of food and said: "Friend, you're thanking the wrong place. If you want to thank me — when your child grows up, have him be a good person."

When his daughter was small, she asked him: "Dad, does giving blood hurt?" He said it did. "Then why do you still go?" For a moment he had no answer. After a long pause: "Your school is far away. Does the walk hurt?" His daughter said it did. "And do you still go?" She said she did. "Same thing."

His daughter started university this year, and in her first week she had her own blood type tested — a common type, luckily. She joined the campus volunteer team and guides donors at the blood bank on holidays. Old Meng posted a thumbs-up in the family group chat with one line: "Better than Dad. All Dad knows is brute force."

He is nearly fifty now and has adjusted his donation rhythm on the blood bank's advice, but the phone ring is still at maximum. Someday, he says, when he can't donate anymore, the habit will be handed down — "and then it'll be my girl answering the phone."