"Yes."

"A stroke of luck."

"I don't see how you can call it that."

"My patient in MICU is AB positive. He's been waiting a year for a heart. This is the best match that's come up for him."

Abby looked at Karen Terrio and she remembered, once again, the blue and white blouse. She wondered what the woman had been thinking as she'd buttoned it up that last time. Mundane thoughts, perhaps. Certainly not mortal thoughts. Not thoughts of a hospital bed or IV tubes or machines pumping air into her lungs.

"I'd like to go ahead with the lymphocyte crossmatch. Make sure they're compatible," said Vivian. "And we might as well start HLA typing for the other organs. The EEG's been done, hasn't it?"

"She's not on my service; said Abby. "And anyway, I think this is premature. No one's even talked to the husband about it."

"Someone's going to have to."

"She has kids. They'll need time for this to sink in."

"The organs don't have a lot of time."

"I know I know it's got to be done. But, as I said, she's only ten hours post-op."

Vivian went to the sink and washed her hands. "You aren't really expecting a miracle, are you?"

A SICU nurse appeared at the cubicle door. "The husband's back with the kids. They're waiting to visit. Will you be much longer?"

"I'm finished," saidVivian. She tossed the crumpled paper towel into the trash can and walked out.

"Can I send them in?" the nurse asked Abby.

Abby looked at KarenTerrio. In that instant she saw, with painful clarity, what a child would see gazing at that bed. "Wait," said Abby. "Not yet." She went to the bed and quickly smoothed out the blankets. She wet a paper towel in the sink and wiped away the flecks of dried mucus from the woman's cheek. She transferred the bag of urine around to the side of the bed, where it would not be so visible. Then, stepping back, she took one last look at KarenTerrio. And she realized that nothing she could do, nothing anyone could do, would lessen the pain of what was to come for those children.