PART 2
Two years later, Bella was no longer the joyful girl who used to run around the living room. She was eleven, but sometimes she seemed much younger. She got sick often, grew tired climbing stairs, and started losing that vivid color she used to have in her cheeks. At first, the doctors talked about infections, anemia, and exhaustion. Then came the accident. A taxi struck her as she was leaving school—nothing that seemed fatal at first, but her body was already weak. At the hospital, they told us the truth with a coldness that still burns me: her kidneys were failing, and the impact had made everything worse. She needed an urgent transplant.
Ernest took the tests. I did too. Neither of us was a match. Relatives, cousins, aunts, and uncles all showed up to pray, to cry, and to say “poor Bella,” but when it came time to take the tests, many found excuses. Then a doctor looked at the chart and asked:
“Does she have any siblings?”
The silence that fell was worse than a scream. Ernest lowered his head. I felt Marcus back in our midst, his nose bleeding, begging from the floor.
“She has a brother,” I said. “But we don’t know where he is.”
