“Placental abruption,” she said, pulling him down the hall. “The placenta separated from the uterine wall. She’s hemorrhaging internally. We need emergency surgery, but she has already lost too much blood.”
“Then take mine.”
“There are forms. Risks. Screening.”
“Take whatever you need.”
The prep room smelled of antiseptic and fear. Victor signed everything without reading. Consent. Blood donation. Emergency use. He wrote his name with savage strokes, as though his signature could undo three years of damage.
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