Page 110 of Don't Go
Don't tell me.
Don't promise me.
Just do it.
I went upstairs.
The folder was on the kitchen counter where I'd left it the morning of my father's death. I'd moved the folder once when I'd been making coffee, and the folder had been in the way of the sugar bowl.
I picked the folder up and opened it.
The first page was a typed letter from Simon Kessler.
Dear Mr. Cross. My name is Simon Kessler. I'm writing to you because I've been calling your office for several months, and your foundation has been processing my son's case. He has been on the cardiac waitlist for over a year, and my son is in manageable condition but needs surgery accordingto his cardiologist's most recent assessment. His name is Dylan. He is eleven years old.
I read the rest of it.
There was a photograph clipped inside.
Dylan was in a hospital gown. He had thin arms and Simon's eyes. He was holding a stuffed dinosaur with one eye. The other eye had been sewn back on at some point with a button that didn't match the original. Dylan's mother, Marta, standing behind him.
I looked at the photograph for a long time.
I thought about how much smaller this morning would have been if I'd read the file the day Simon handed it to me.
I thought about Sabrina in the lounge, about Bonnie under the surgical blue, and about Dylan clutching a one-eyed dinosaur, possibly sitting tonight in an apartment.
I put the folder down, picked up my phone, and started to work.
I made calls.
I called a cardiac center in Philadelphia that had had a relationship with the Cross Foundation since my father had funded a wing of their pediatric unit. The receiver picked up the call and listened. He told me he could have an evaluation slot in five days, and he needed the cardiologist's recommendation file by morning.
I sent them inside the hour.
I called the transplant network and two hospitals I had no relationship with using my father's name when my own wasn't enough. I emailed my lawyer and told him to draft paperwork to fund Dylan's surgery personally if the foundation couldn't get the approvals in the timeline that mattered.
I called the social worker at Memorial who had been on the case of a girl on the record named Lily, a twelve-year-old girlwho became the heart donor for Simon Kessler's son, Dylan. I asked the social worker for the family's name and told her why. The social worker told me she would call the family and tell them I was coming.
Some hours later, I had three things in motion.
I called Simon through the number he provided on the folder. It was the middle of the night, and he picked up on the second ring.
"Mr. Cross."
"Simon, I have a slot in Philadelphia. Their cardiac team will evaluate Dylan in five days. The foundation will cover transport, lodging, and every expense. There is a possible donor lead I'm going to handle personally. I can't promise it. I'll be at your house in the morning at nine."
I paused, then continued.
"Sabrina doesn't know I'm calling you. She told me to fix this without telling her. I'm telling you because you are a great father who is fighting for the life of his son, and I admire that. I'm the man who took something from your son. I'm going to give it back. You don't have to forgive me. I'm not asking for that."
Simon was silent for a while. "Mr. Cross, please be at my house at nine."
The call ended.
The next morning, I drove to Queens.
Simon's house was a small two-story on a residential street. The front steps had been swept.
