Chapter 11: The File

The doctor's office was on the fourth floor, with a window onto the parking lot and a framed photograph of a sailboat.

He closed the door behind us. Anson came in too, and stood against the wall with his arms crossed.

"Sit, please," the doctor said. "I have a great deal to say, and I may lose my license by the end of it."

I sat.

"I have been Lila's doctor since her transplant, eighteen years," he said. "Every year I asked your father to let me tell her."

"Tell her what?"

"That she had a match who was alive and healthy, and that her body was going to need that match again."

My ears roared.

"Her father said no. Every year. He said she was too fragile. He said the match could not be approached without a scandal."

"Because I was dead."

"Because you were officially dead, yes." He turned his monitor around to face me.

"I've never been allowed to say your name in this building."

On the screen was a spreadsheet, gray and plain, eighteen rows long.

The first column was a date, every October, starting the year I turned nine.

The second column was a lab result. Kidney function, blood type, tissue match, blood pressure, weight.

My weight, at nine, at twelve, at sixteen.

The third column was a signature, and it was his.

The fourth column held a short note, and it was the same note in every row, typed in the same flat style.

Donor W. Healthy. Reserve status maintained. Keep her healthy.

At the bottom of each row, in the margin, there was a pair of initials in blue ink, scanned in.

P.A.S.

I read it once, then again, and my hands went numb on the arms of the chair.

"Reserve donor," I said.

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