When I returned to my room, the doctor said the match was successful. Surgery would begin tonight.
I hesitated, embarrassed. "How much... will they pay?"
"I told both recipients about your situation," he said. "They're willing to give twenty-four thousand total, including follow-up costs."
The number loosened something in my chest.
Soon, the recipients' families delivered a heavy bag of cash.
There wasn't much time. I tore a page from the visitor log and scrawled my last words in ballpoint, then stuffed it into the bag.
As they wheeled me toward the operating room, I pressed the bag into the doctor's hands.
I choked back tears. "Please—give this to the Chens."
He nodded solemnly. "I'll hold onto it. When your parents visit, I'll hand it to them personally."
The anesthesia hit. My thoughts dissolved.
When I woke, I was lying in a sterile white room, tubes snaking from every part of my body.
Painfully, I lifted my arm, grabbed the breathing mask strapped to my face, and ripped it off.
Finally. It's ending.
The heart monitor screamed. Medical staff flooded in, hands pressing, machines whirring.
Their movements were frantic, but I felt nothing.