I learned which nurses worked nights.
Which chairs in dialysis reclined properly.
Which waiting rooms had the least terrible coffee.
Every week ended with the same thought:
Maybe this is my life now.
My family was tested.
Mom squeezed my hand while the transplant coordinator explained compatibility.
My brother joked:
“Don’t worry. Mine are premium kidneys.”
Even Dad smiled.
Then the results came back.
Nobody matched.
I pretended I was okay.
I wasn’t.
“WE HAVE A VOLUNTEER.”
Two months later, my doctor walked into the dialysis unit with an expression I couldn’t read.
“Claire.”
I looked up.
“We have a potential living donor.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
“A volunteer.”
“Who?”
He checked the chart.
“Ethan.”
The name meant absolutely nothing to me.
“Ethan who?”
He told me.
Still nothing.
I laughed because the alternative was crying.
“A stranger wants to give me a kidney?”
“Apparently.”
“Why?”
My doctor gave me that careful medical smile.
“He heard about you through a mutual acquaintance. He has already completed initial testing.”
“And he matches?”
“So far.”
I stared at him.
“Why would someone do that?”
“You can ask him yourself.”
Three days later, I did.
THE FIRST TIME I MET ETHAN
He walked into a conference room at Willowcrest Medical Center carrying two paper cups.
“Tea or coffee?”
I stared.
“You’re Ethan?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“Whether you want tea or coffee.”
Despite myself, I almost smiled.
“Coffee.”
“Strong?”
“Very.”
He handed me the darker cup.
I didn’t drink it.
Instead, I asked:
“Why are you doing this?”
Ethan sat across from me.
“Hello to you too.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
“You don’t know me.”
