The next morning, they rolled him into the operating theater. The nurses smiled, telling us it was a routine, high-success procedure. Clara held my hand in the waiting room as the hours ticked by. One hour. Three hours. Five hours.
At the six-hour mark, the red light above the double doors finally flipped to green. Dr. Aris walked out, pulling down her surgical mask. She looked exhausted, but she smiled.
“The valve replacement was a complete success,” she said, wiping her brow. “His heart is incredibly strong for a man of his age. We are moving him to the ICU for monitoring, but you can see him in about two hours once the anesthesia wears off.”
I let out a breath I felt like I’d been holding for a decade. Clara hugged me, laughing through her tears. We had done it. I had saved him. I had finally paid back a fraction of the debt I owed to the man who gave me a life.
