“Do what?”
“That’s what I wanted to know. So this morning, while the Coles were out, I used the old spare key Mrs. Cole gave me in fifth grade. I went into the house.” He pulled a second paper from his pocket. “The DNA thing was in a folder on Mr. Cole’s desk. This was right under it.”
It was a letter from the transplant center at St. Brigid’s Hospital.
Re: Mr. Cole — Kidney Transplant Program. Living donor evaluation scheduled for Thursday, 9:00 a.m. Potential donor: W. Brennan (biological relative).
Stuck to the corner was a yellow sticky note in handwriting I recognized from twenty years of birthday cards. Dale’s.
Get W. to sign consent before Holly knows.
I read it three times. The words didn’t get any better.
“Mr. Cole’s been sick, Mom,” Wyatt said. “Haven’t you noticed? He looks terrible. Gray. Tired all the time. And remember my sleepover at their house after graduation? My toothbrush disappeared. Mrs. Cole said the dog probably got it.” He laughed, and it was an awful sound. “They didn’t want to find a son. They wanted a kidney. And Ezra’s been in on it the whole time. That’s why he wanted me to move in. So he could ask me when I couldn’t say no.”
