“So I’ll be in a coma?”
“Essentially. But one of our biggest obstacles is going to be getting the right people to sign off on this procedure with such a short window. I’m afraid we don’t know any more about Death-Cast than the general public, and as doctors, it’s in our ethics to support you first.”
“To act like I’m not dying,” I say.
“Correct. It’s like I said before: it’s very possible Death-Cast can be wrong. But we’re not going to know until . . .”
“Until after I’ve died.”
“Or survived,” Orion says.
“Either-or,” Dr. Emeterio says.
“So if I survive, then that means Death-Cast can’t be trusted. Though if I die it means they’re right but it’s too late to do anything about it? Is this a dead end? What are we even trying to figure out here?”
“I can discuss this with the board and explore a window of time in which we may be able to safely perform the transplant with your consent, understanding that we won’t be able to save you should you go under and that you’re making this decision because of Death-Cast. It’s possible that if enough predictions are right between now and the afternoon, then we may be able to proceed. But I’m afraid I can’t make any guarantees because this is all too new.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, overwhelmed. I’m tired, but my End Day adrenaline is keeping me up. More than anything I want to be home right now, even on my twin-size air mattress that I’m sure is going to be uncomfortable. But not as uncomfortable as being put to sleep and knowing I’ll never wake up.
There’s an anatomical heart model on the examination bed. I’m drawn to it, like a model to a camera. It’s heavier than I expected, and it’s as big as my fist. I’d be surprised if this is actually accurate to scale. But what do I know? I can barely keep up with Dr. Emeterio’s conflicts, and I’m not exactly being given the time to become an expert on the subject.
I’m going to cut to the chase.
“What do you suggest I do, then?” I ask.
“If you’re serious about being a donor,” Dr. Emeterio says. “I would stay here at the hospital. Should something happen to you, we’ll be in the best position possible to try to save you. But if we can’t and you’re experiencing brain death, then we’ll be in an even better position to perform the surgery.”
“And once I’m brain-dead, my heart will be removed. Then once my heart is removed, I’ll be dead.” Those words leave my mouth, taking the air out of me too. I haven’t cried yet, and I don’t want to crack now, but I see Dr. Emeterio nodding through the periphery of my watery eyes. “Okay, and after Orion is put under, you’ll replace his heart with mine, and he’ll be good.”
“Theoretically, yes. That’s assuming Orion doesn’t reject your heart.”
“I won’t,” Orion says. “Oh, you mean, like, if my body rejects his heart.”
Dr. Emeterio answers with a nod as Orion’s face goes red.
“But Orion and I are matches, right? So shouldn’t it work?”
“Every recipient is different, but on average, there are two to three rejection episodes after a transplant. Some small, some bigger. Some early on, some later.”
In a new world where we know when someone is going to die, we still don’t know how long someone will live.
I shouldn’t stress this so hard. This is going to be Orion’s choice ultimately. I can’t force him to take my heart. But I can’t help but worry. I don’t want my last act of kindness to kill someone.
The door opens, and Dalma rushes in so fast it scares me. As if there’s some ax murderer chasing her like some horror movie and this is how I’m about to die. I almost even brace myself for death, disappointed that it’s arriving sooner than I thought—even sooner, I should say. But this isn’t what’s happening at all. Dalma’s phone is ringing and she passes it to me. The caller ID reads Scarlett （Valentino’s sister）， and I can feel the biggest cry of my life building from within.