As it happened, Ah Leung woke up later than he usually would on his one day off this week. It was a race day and by the time he trod down to the local betting branch of the Hong Kong Jockey Club, the old man who sold discarded newspapers had gone home to avoid the noontime sun.

The races had already begun and Ah Leung didn’t want to waste any time walking the few blocks to the nearest newsstand. Nor did he want to pay full price at the 7-11 just for the two pages on today’s races. It was only mid-month and already he could barely make ends meet with what was left of last month’s meager pay.

But Ah Leung loved the races. And he had a good feeling about today.

The sidewalk outside the tiny betting branch was crowded with the usual assortment of punters; old men in threadbare undershirts, young men playing hooky to avoid laboring in the sun. Like Ah Leung, they were all working class folks with more faith in the God of Fortune than in menial work. The two flat-screen TVs on the outer glass walls of the branch announced that bets on the next race would close in 53 seconds. He scanned the floor and trash bins but found no discarded newspapers.

In the recess of a dusty old tenement building beside the branch, barely visible in the shadows, a boy was folding an old newspaper into origami birds.

“Boy, is that today’s paper?”

The pale-faced boy looked up at him with cloudy eyes. “It’s not a newspaper, mister. It’s the stuff that gives new life to those who believe.”

The boy held up a paper pigeon, cradling the fragile creature with two hands.

“I’ll give you two dollars for it.”

The boy smiled, showing a set of decaying teeth.

“You betting on horses? I’ll give it to you for five dollars.”

“Sure, just hurry.”

“And you promise to give me something valuable when you’re rich?”

“Sure, kid. Promise.”

Ah Leung returned to the crowd and caught the end of a race. Men cursed at their misplaced faith, dropping their betting stubs among the cigarette butts that littered the ground.

The next race had a horse named Super Fly, which someone had already circled on Ah Leung’s crumpled newspaper. It wasn’t the horse he bet on. Whoever lost this paper wasted a lot of effort picking horses for every race, Ah Leung thought as he pored over the pencil marks on every line.

Super Fly came in first. Then Savage Love in the next race. Then Sensei Chan. And Sugar Sweet.

Ah Leung’s cigarette fell from his lips when he realized that all the winners had been circled.

And Ah Leung became a very wealthy man by day’s end. His photo appeared in the evening papers. The other punters hailed him a god. The Jockey Club even threw him a special parade, after a thorough investigation determined no foul play. And just like that, life became a series of splendid experiences.

There were talk shows on which he shared his acumen and insights. His face appeared on magazine covers. Regulars and strangers at the greasy spoon he always ate at patted him on the back, took selfies with him.

But he no longer had to eat there, not if he didn’t want to. He could indulge in proper dim sum at places where patrons wore fancy suits like the ones he had tailored for himself.

No longer did he have to work as a wall plaster man, a see hing. He had people for that now, people who treated him with respect as he ordered them to redecorate his new 1,200-square-foot flat with a partial view of Victoria Harbour.

But the best thing that happened to him was meeting the lady of his dreams. She was properly educated, an HR manager at a global bank. She was too plain to catch the eyes of investment bankers. Her ankles were too thick for her short and stubby frame. But the two of them hit it off the moment they met through Ah Leung’s new banking relationship manager.

They were good together, Ah Leung and Joanna. She brought out his gentler side, taught him a few English words, told him it wasn’t proper to burp in polite company. He brought out a certain confidence in her, made her laugh, told her he liked her long, thin hair. They always wore a certain glow on their faces that could only come from being truly in love, safe in the knowledge that each of them was somebody’s someone.

Soon, they were wed. The flat with the sea view took on a new life, thanks to a woman’s touch. In-laws visited on occasion. There was talk of children. And when the right time came, Joanna was with child.

But there were complications. A rare condition, the doctors told Ah Leung. Something with a name he had never heard before and couldn’t pronounce. And that he would have to prepare for the worse. Perhaps he would like to spend time with his unconscious wife. They would make it comfortable for her and their unborn child over the next few days.

That night, as he half-dozed by his wife’s side, not daring to sleep, the pale boy’s words floated up in his tired mind. A dark realization compelled him to hurry back to the tenement where he’d met the boy.

The ageless boy squatted in the doorway, scribbling on a discarded newspaper.

“It’s what you promised me for the newspaper,” the pale youth said. His eyes betrayed no sympathy, his voice cold as the February night.

“I’ll give you anything you want,” Ah Leung pleaded. “I’ll give up everything. All I have is yours. Please, don’t take my wife and child.”

The boy cackled, his gaunt ice-green cheeks peeling back to reveal rotting teeth. He squinted up at Ah Leung, eyes cloudy in the cold light of the streets.

“You’re really silly, mister. I don’t want to take her life.”

The boy opened a bony hand and showed him a five-dollar coin.

“You promised me five dollars and something valuable. That’s your life. I want to be you. Your wife and child will live a long and happy life. And you and I will trade places. Or you can take back your five dollars and live without them, wealthy but poor in happiness.”

Ah Leung spent many hours wandering the streets of his youth. Aging buildings crammed together, metal gates closed to the nighttime streets. The dusty tenements, greasy diners and cluttered shops now felt foreign to him, like flashes from a dream half-forgotten.

His mind turned to his dying wife, their nameless child yet to draw breath still in her womb. His aching heart told him what he must do, yet the growing lump in his throat protested against the thought of never embracing her again.

It was half past midnight when he returned to his wife’s bedside. For the next hour, they held her hands, feeling her stubby fingers entwined in his, looking at her closed eyelids, committing every detail of her to memory.

“I’m sorry, my Love.”

He kissed her gently, his lips lingering on hers, his hand on her heart, knowing he would never embrace her again. He closed his eyes tighter and made his decision.