I stared at the photograph, the harsh fluorescent light of the bathroom making my smiling face look sickeningly pale. Beneath my picture, typed in cold, clinical ink, were the words: Donor: Sibling Match. Procedure: Total Cardiac Extraction & Synthetic Replacement.
My vision blurred. Extraction? Frantically, I flipped to the next page, my eyes scanning the dense medical jargon. It detailed an experimental procedure. Because Lily’s body was rejecting every standard match, a “100% bio-identical organ” was required. The file noted a secondary surgery performed simultaneously in Operating Room 4—a surgery to install a temporary, experimental synthetic pump into the donor to keep them alive. Lifespan of prototype: 6 to 8 months.
“This is insane,” I whispered to the empty stall. “I’ve been awake. I’ve been in the waiting room all day.”
But as the words left my mouth, a heavy, sinking wave of nausea washed over me. My mind flashed back to that morning. The hospital staff had insisted I take a “mild sedative IV” to calm my nerves while Lily was prepped. My parents had ushered me into a private recovery room, tucking me in and telling me to rest. I had woken up hours later, groggy and sore, assuming I had just slept in a terrible position on the hospital cot.
With trembling fingers, I reached for the top button of my blouse.
I pulled the fabric aside, looking down at my chest. Running straight down my sternum, barely visible under a layer of advanced, flesh-toned medical adhesive, was a perfectly straight surgical seam.
I pressed two fingers against the side of my neck to check my pulse. There was no familiar, rhythmic thud. Instead, beneath my skin, I felt a low, continuous mechanical whir.
They hadn’t just stolen my heart to save my sister. My parents had authorized it. They had traded my life for hers.
“Maya?”
My mother’s voice echoed through the tiled bathroom, sickeningly sweet and laced with a false fragility. I heard the bathroom door swing shut, followed by the soft click of the deadbolt locking from the inside.
“Maya, honey, are you in here?” she called out, her footsteps clicking slowly across the tile. “Dr. Evans said you wandered off. Lily is waking up. She wants to see her big sister.”
I clamped my hand over my mouth to stifle a sob, clutching the manila folder to my chest.
“We know you’re confused, sweetheart,” my father’s voice chimed in. He was in the bathroom with her. “But you have to understand. Lily is so young. She has her whole life ahead of her. The doctors say the synthetic pump will give you a few good months. We’re taking you to Paris, just like you always wanted! We’re going to give you a beautiful goodbye.”
I looked up at the frosted glass window near the ceiling of the bathroom stall. It was small, but wide enough. If I stayed, I was a walking corpse waiting for my battery to die while my family played house with my stolen heart.
Carefully, silently, I stepped up onto the toilet seat, sliding the medical file into the back waistband of my jeans.
“Maya,” my father’s voice dropped its gentle facade, taking on a cold, hardened edge as he stopped outside my stall. “Open the door. The hospital security is waiting outside. You can’t leave with hospital property.”
I kicked the window latch open.
