“The results came back this morning,” Sarah said, her voice devoid of its usual performative warmth. She folded her linen napkin with surgical precision. “You’re a perfect 6-out-of-6 match, Leah. It’s a miracle.”
A heavy chill settled in my stomach, one that had absolutely nothing to do with the endless Seattle rain lashing against the floor-to-ceiling windows. I looked over at my father, Mark. He didn’t offer a reassuring smile or a comforting hand. Instead, he was already sliding a thick stack of printed medical consent forms across the table.
“We’ve scheduled the preliminary surgery for next Thursday,” Mark said. He wasn’t asking. He was informing me of my itinerary. “We’ve given you everything, Leah. The best schools, this roof over your head. Now, it’s your turn to give back to this family.”
I stared at the pristine white paper, the black ink demanding a piece of my physical body. I opened my mouth to speak, to ask about the risks, the recovery time, the sheer terrifying reality of being sliced open and having an organ harvested. I wanted to know if they had even considered what this meant for my life.
Before a single syllable could leave my throat, Mark’s hand slammed down on the table, pinning a separate, legally binding document over the medical forms—a waiver of liability against them for any lost wages or complications. He leaned in, the smell of his expensive scotch washing over me, and whispered, “Don’t even think about saying no.”
The word no tasted like ash in my mouth, but it was the only word I had left.
