I grabbed my phone and found the city's latest hospital headline:
DIRECTOR SWANSON AND WIFE FUND KIDNEY TRANSPLANT FOR RURAL GIRL WITH UREMIA — COMPLETELY OUT OF POCKET!
Below the headline, a gallery of photos.
My parents in their white coats, beaming smiles, posing with the little girl.
Standing beside her—the same middle-aged couple who had beaten me days ago.
The kidney was never destroyed.
It had all been staged.
My body began to shake. I clutched the phone as bile rose in my throat.
I vomited—acid and blood—then forced myself to read the entire article.
Every word praised their selflessness. Their noble hearts. Their dedication to healing.
Three years I had waited. Three years.
And they had handed my kidney to someone else with their own hands.
A bitter laugh escaped my cracked lips.
Then I saw it: the hospital's commendation ceremony.
The families my parents had "sponsored" over the years had organized an awards event in their honor. Provincial media. City press. Everyone who mattered would be there.
I closed my phone and checked the time.
I stood. Went to the cabinet. Pulled out the video from ten years ago—the recording of my sister's suicide.