Page 147 of Ghost Ribbon

Dead eyes. I knew what they looked like. I had been told many times, by many people, that my eyes were the coldest thing they had ever seen. Empty. Hollow.

“If I’m compatible,” I explained. “If my heart can be given to him. Test me.”

The doctor stared at me like I was an alien.

“Mr. Morozov, you… you know that would kill you.”

“I’m aware,” I confirmed. “So test me.”

His face was doing something complicated. He was a doctor. He had sworn to save lives. He was being asked to determine whether one life could be exchanged for another, and the person asking was the life that would be lost.

“Mr. Morozov, I can’t just—”

“Test me,” I repeated as I leaned forward. “Or I’ll rip your heart out instead.”

He swallowed. He was visibly shaking with fear now. “Okay, go to room seven in three hours,” he said. “Down the hall, second door on the left. They’ll run a few tests there.”

I stood up and then I walked toward the door.

My heart for his.

A trade.

***

Marco’s parents came.

His mother came first.

She was smaller than I remembered. Or maybe she had always been this small and I hadn’t noticed because I had been too busy watching Marco to see her properly.

His father was behind her and Luca was with them.

They were met at the door by a nurse who directed them to a consultation room.

I watched from the corner of the hallway.

A few moments later, I could hear his mother cry and when she came out she was being held up by her husband. Luca was behind them.

He was crying too. He was signing through the tears, the gestures coming fast and frantic, the same sign over and over and over.

Is he going to die.

Is he going to die.

Is he going to die.

His father’s hands were shaking too badly to sign back.

They moved down the hallway toward Marco’s room, and I stayed in my corner until his mother stopped when she saw me. I waited for the yelling but she just came close and she hugged me.

I didn’t know how to react. My arms hung at my sides, unresponsive. “I’m so sorry,” she said.

I didn’t understand how she could be sorry. She was the one whose son was dying. She was the one who had been lied to. “This must have been hard,” she continued, her voice muffled against my shirt, her arms tightening around my waist. “Thank you. Thank you for taking care of him.”

She patted my chest once.

Then she turned and walked back to her husband, who put his arm around her again.