“Take the day.”
“I’m out of paid time.”
“We’ll figure that out.”
“I can come after.”
“No.”
“Dennis—”
“You donate blood and then come push equipment around my building, and I’m the idiot filling out paperwork after you fall over.”
Colter smiled.
“Fair.”
His warehouse supervisor was less understanding.
“If you miss tonight, I can’t promise you Saturday.”
“I know.”
“Colter, you need hours.”
“I know.”
“Then?”
“There’s a sick kid.”
Silence.
“You know the family?”
“No.”
Another silence.
“Fine.”
The line disconnected.
Colter looked at his phone.
Juniper said:
“Was he mad?”
“A little.”
“Are you still going?”
“Yes.”
She nodded.
As if there had never been another possible answer.
The blood-donation room at St. Vincent’s was small and beige.
Narrow beds.
Curtains.
A refrigerator humming against one wall.
Darlene Green checked Colter’s paperwork.
She was fifty-eight, wore reading glasses on a beaded chain, and possessed the calm authority of someone who had spent decades telling frightened people exactly what would happen next.
“When did you sleep?”
“Last night.”
“How much?”
Colter hesitated.
Darlene stared.
“Four hours.”
“Breakfast?”
“Coffee.”
“That is a beverage.”
“Toast.”
“One piece?”
“Yes.”
Darlene turned toward Juniper.
“Your father is difficult.”
Juniper nodded immediately.
“He needs soup.”
“Excellent medical opinion.”
Darlene gave Colter juice and crackers before doing anything else.
After repeat vitals and screening, he was cleared.
Juniper sat nearby with colored pencils.
Colter reclined.
The needle went in.
He looked toward the ceiling.
Sarah.
Toast burned black every Sunday.
Coffee too strong.
Dancing badly in the kitchen.
Juniper learning to walk.
Sarah asleep with Juniper on her chest.
Snow against a hospital window.
Last words.
Kindness is the only thing we can give away and still keep.
Halfway through, Darlene noticed he had gone pale.
“Lightheaded?”
“A little.”
“You tell me before it becomes a lot.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Juniper looked over.
“You look like mashed potatoes.”
“Thank you.”
“You do.”
Darlene laughed.
When the donation was complete, Colter remained reclined.
Darlene left.
Returned ten minutes later.
Her expression had changed.
“Mr. Whitaker?”
“Yeah?”
“The final compatibility testing looks very good.”
“For the child?”
“Yes.”
“Will this help?”
“It gives the medical team an option they very much wanted.”
Colter nodded.
“Good.”
Darlene hesitated.
“The child’s mother has asked whether the donor would be willing to meet her. We don’t disclose donor identity without permission.”
Colter thought.
Then:
“Okay.”
Juniper went back to coloring.
Several minutes later, the door opened.
Maren Harrington stood there.
Not the woman from the lobby.
Not visually.
Her blonde hair was loose.
Her clothes were wrinkled.
Hospital visitor badge crooked.
No makeup beneath exhausted eyes.