I took a deep breath and answered. Before I could speak, his voice cut through—cold as a blade. "Alberta Mason. Central City Hospital. Hematology. Now. Maureen needs blood." A pause. "Your daughter needs fifty thousand to live, doesn't she? I'll give you a hundred."
Maureen Mason, Denys Simmons's fiancée, was my sister in name only—a fragile "porcelain doll" who required my blood at regular intervals to survive.
Before, the Mason family had paid me two thousand per transfusion. Now he was offering a hundred thousand. They must be desperate.
I couldn't afford to question it. Denise's surgery couldn't wait.
I grabbed the few hundred dollars I had left—just enough for a cab—and rushed to the hospital. My stomach churned, empty and acidic. The nurse frowned at my test results. "Your hemoglobin is already low. Drawing 400cc on an empty stomach—you'll pass out."
I forced a smile. "It's fine. My daughter's life depends on this."
I extended my arm. The nurse hesitated, then reluctantly inserted the needle. The cold crept up from the puncture site, spreading through my veins.