He reached into his bag, his fingers moving quickly. Then, he jabbed her thigh with the injector.
I stepped close and froze. “Wait!
Her bracelet… I never saw that before.”
Silver band, red bold letters. “SEVERE ALLERGY RISK: CALL 911.”
I stared at the photo of my son in my hand.
“MATCH CONFIRMED: 911”
My knees went soft.
“She was trying to help,” the EMT murmured. “I think you were mistaken, ma’am. I think this woman is a donor for your son.
Hospital records will confirm it.”
I clutched the staircase rail. Because if she really was helping… then I’d gotten it all wrong.
That wasn’t about Luke.
It was about Kayla.
“Viv,” Kayla rasped as the EMTs lifted her onto the stretcher. Just one word. It sounded like it burned her throat to say it.
I stepped forward.
“You’re going to be okay, Kayla.”
The ambulance pulled away. I stood there, arms wrapped around myself like I could hold in the shame.
The neighbors had gone mostly quiet.
Except Mrs. Thomas. She lingered at the edge of her porch, shaking her head like she’d known all along.
“She had a photo of your kid, Vivian,” she muttered.
“I heard you telling the cop. Still sounds creepy to me.”
I turned, jaw tight. “You don’t get to call her creepy.
She nearly died trying to help him. She’s the reason my son might live.”
I went inside and closed the door behind me, pressing my back to it.
“What happened?” Luke asked, peeking out from the hallway.
My phone buzzed. I hesitated, then answered.
“Vivian speaking.”
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