Chapter 21: The Red Scarf

The pulmonologist put my scans on the lightbox and tapped the dark patches with a pen.

"Here is the scarring from the fire," she said. "That's permanent. And here is what the last six months did on top of it."

"Saline," I said.

"Untreated inflammation. You've lost about eight percent. I want to begin an evaluation, so we have a baseline and a plan."

"A transplant?"

"A list is not a surgery. I don't expect you to need one for years, if you take real medicine from today."

I nodded.

My hands were steady in my lap.

Sam sat beside me, and for once he said nothing at all.

In the parking lot, Dylan was leaning on his car.

He had waited for me outside two hospitals in a week and not once come in.

"I'm not here to ask for anything," he said.

"That's your opening line now."

"It's true." He held out a manila envelope. "I got my ICU admission records released this morning. I wanted to know the thing nobody ever told me."

"What thing?"

"Who found us."

I took the envelope.

Inside was a copy of the Chicago Fire Department's patient care report, two pages.

I read the first.

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