For a heartbeat Sylvia thought she had misheard him.
Only you can save her, Michael had said, like it was the simplest thing in the world. Like he was asking for a favor, not a piece of her life.
Antiseptic burned the back of her throat. The corridor outside the intensive ward hummed with distant machines, but around them everything felt still. Fluorescent light glared off the polished floor, off the rims of the wheelchair where her fingers had gone numb from gripping too hard.
“Say that again," she managed.
Michael stood in front of her chair, shoulders tight in his wrinkled suit. Iris's blood stained his cuff, a dark smear near his wrist.
“The doctor says a full blood exchange is her only chance," he said. “They checked every donor. Only your blood matches hers."
My blood. For her.
