Rather than a kind of sexy background to their lives, these things signified sickness. Death. Helplessness. These things meant she waited for something that might never happen. Waited for someone else to die. They’d had no match through living donors and she hated this vulture she’d become. Listening to the police scanner for calls that might mean she and her husband would grow old together as they’d planned. A car accident. A fall. Even some kind of shoot-out. All they needed was one good kidney. She had come to terms with the idea that violence might bring her peace. Even though she hated herself a little more every time she looked in a mirror, she had come to terms with being a scavenger. You do what you have to do. She stood outside the door that would open to her own private hell and sucked in deep breaths. Somehow the pain-infused air of the hallway tasted better than the air in the room. The hallway held the pain of other people. The room held her own. She shot up a prayer for strength and plastered on a smile because she loved him so much.
