“Placental abruption,” she said, pulling him down the hall. “The placenta separated from the uterine wall. She’s hemorrhaging internally. We need emergency surgery, but she has already lost too much blood.”
“Then take mine.”
“There are forms. Risks. Screening.”
“Take whatever you need.”
The prep room smelled of antiseptic and fear. Victor signed everything without reading. Consent. Blood donation. Emergency use. He wrote his name with savage strokes, as though his signature could undo three years of damage.
A technician inserted a needle into his arm.
Blood began to flow from him into a clear tube, then into a waiting bag.
Victor watched it with a strange, hollow focus.
There it was.
The price of his sins.
Continue on the next page:
