Minutes later, security finally arrived.
I dragged myself upright through the pain—and heard the middle-aged man's triumphant shout.
"I destroyed the kidney!"
"You wanted to steal my daughter's kidney source?"
"Go ahead and try now!"
"It's gone! No surgery for you!"
My mind went blank. I stared at his sneering, laughing mouth.
That's when Dr. Chavez rushed over.
"Penelope, I'm so sorry..."
"The kidney really was destroyed."
"You'll have to... get back on the waiting list..."
His words passed through me like wind through a hollow room.
I pushed through the crowd and walked out, a body moving without a soul inside it.
Back in my cramped, damp basement room, I curled into myself.
I didn't understand.
I just wanted to live. To be healthy. To survive.
Why was that so impossible?
I stayed locked in that room for two days. No food. No water.
On the third day, my phone rang.
"Penelope, turn on the news! Now!"
"Director Swanson just performed a kidney transplant himself!"
The voice of a fellow dialysis patient hit me like a hammer to the skull.
I grabbed my phone and found the city's latest hospital headline:
DIRECTOR SWANSON AND WIFE FUND KIDNEY TRANSPLANT FOR RURAL GIRL WITH UREMIA — COMPLETELY OUT OF POCKET!
Below the headline, a gallery of photos.
My parents in their white coats, beaming smiles, posing with the little girl.
Standing beside her—the same middle-aged couple who had beaten me days ago.
The kidney was never destroyed.
It had all been staged.
My body began to shake. I clutched the phone as bile rose in my throat.
I vomited—acid and blood—then forced myself to read the entire article.
Every word praised their selflessness. Their noble hearts. Their dedication to healing.
Three years I had waited. Three years.
And they had handed my kidney to someone else with their own hands.
A bitter laugh escaped my cracked lips.
Then I saw it: the hospital's commendation ceremony.
The families my parents had "sponsored" over the years had organized an awards event in their honor. Provincial media. City press. Everyone who mattered would be there.
I closed my phone and checked the time.
I stood. Went to the cabinet. Pulled out the video from ten years ago—the recording of my sister's suicide.
I gathered everything I needed and dragged my failing body to the hospital.
"Director Swanson, Director James—you're living saints!"
"If it weren't for you, I'd have jumped off a building with my child by now!"