Diego wasn’t a wealthy executive with a fast car. He was a former volunteer firefighter—that explained his bravery in the fire years ago—who had left the force after his wife died in a car accident five years earlier. He worked in a factory, raising his daughter, Luna, alone. And seven-year-old Luna had acute lymphoblastic leukemia.
Recent articles in the local press reported a desperate campaign to find a bone marrow donor. Chemotherapy wasn’t working. Luna was running out of time.
Carmen turned off the computer and was left in darkness in her small apartment. She remembered the pink suitcase with unicorns. She remembered the despair in Diego’s eyes. He had saved Carmen from the fire, but now he faced a fire he couldn’t extinguish with water: his own daughter’s illness.
“The universe can’t be that cruel,” Carmen thought. “It couldn’t have put me in his path just so I could escort him to watch his daughter die.”
The next day, Carmen went to the donor center.
“I want to get tested,” she said with determination. “For bone marrow donation.”