Margaret lay still on the bed. Her face was the color of parchment, her lips completely bloodless.
Her attending physician stood at the bedside, his expression heavy with regret. When he saw me, he let out a quiet sigh.
"Miss Whitfield, I'm sorry. We did everything we could."
My pupils contracted. The room tilted, darkened at the edges, and my knees nearly buckled.
A nurse caught my arm and steadied me, her voice low.
"She was fine just an hour ago. Then a woman came into the room, said a few things to her, and they got into an argument. That's when she collapsed."
"When you didn't come to sign the consent forms, we activated the emergency protocol, but the donor backed out at the last minute."
Grief pressed down on my chest like a slab of concrete. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't cry. Not a single sound would come.
Slowly, I pulled free of the nurse's hands and moved to the bedside, one leaden step at a time. I took Margaret's hand. It was ice cold.
The woman who had given me warmth and strength when I had nothing left in the world would never open her eyes again.