On July 14th, a call came from the international donor registry. A perfect match had been found in Germany.
The morning of the transplant, the room was quiet. Maya sat up in bed, a little more color in her cheeks than the day I found her in the hallway. Her mother sat in the corner, quietly praying over a string of beads, while I adjusted the pillows behind Maya’s back.
She looked up at me, her pale hazel eyes finally losing that deep, heavy sadness I had run away from a year ago.
“Are you sure you don’t want to go back to your quiet apartment, Arjun?” she joked weakly, a spark of her old humor returning. “The food here is terrible.”
“I tried the quiet life, Maya,” I said, leaning down to press my forehead against hers. “It’s overrated. I prefer the noise.”
The nurse entered the room carrying the small, clear bag of peripheral blood stem cells—the cells that would rewrite her immune system, the cells that would save her life. As the fluid began to travel down the IV line, Maya closed her eyes, her fingers interlocking tightly with mine.
