In July, the coordinator called.
He was a match.
Dale came to our house that night, alone. He stood on my porch and handed me an envelope from Clearpath. Inside was written confirmation that every sample and record with Wyatt’s name had been destroyed. Then he looked at Wyatt over my shoulder.
“I did a terrible thing to you,” he said. “Whatever happens, I’ll never ask you to call me anything but Mr. Cole.”
Wyatt considered that for a long moment.
“Dale’s fine,” he said finally. “For now.”
The surgery was on the twelfth of September.
At 5:30 that morning, the two boys sat side by side in pre-op in matching blue gowns, with matching hospital bracelets, looking exactly like what they were.
“Last chance to back out,” Ezra said. His voice was rough.
“Last chance to stop being dramatic,” Wyatt said.
“I’m serious, Wy.”
“So am I.” Wyatt bumped his shoulder against Ezra’s. “You spent three weeks trying to tell me I had a brother. Let me be one.”
