picture Will, arriving at my doorstep in Paris, both of us so innocent and brimming with hope. I remember my mother’s ravaged face as the doctor announced my diagnosis and my father’s bloodshot eyes whenever he returned from his walks in the woods. I think back to my brother’s faltering grades senior year, the pressure he felt as my donor, the way his needs were constantly overshadowed by mine. In the stillness before sleep, I hear echoes: those quiet moans of suffering, the animal bellows of grief. Of course, I would do anything in my power to spare my loved ones of all pain and terror and
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