Chương 14 - Prep for the HarvestThe hours leading up to the surgery blurred into a surreal sequence of sterile medical protocols, consent forms, and quiet moments in Leo’s room.
That evening, after the nurses had tucked the little girls into a temporary resting suite down the hall, I sat in a hard plastic chair beside Leo’s hospital bed. The little boy was awake, propped up against a stack of white pillows, holding a plastic spaceship I had managed to fix with some hospital tape earlier that afternoon.
“Does it hurt?” Leo asked quietly, looking up at me with those exact, piercing grey-blue eyes.
“Does what hurt, buddy?” I smiled gently, leaning closer to his bedside.
“The medicine going into your arm,” he said, pointing a tiny finger at the IV port taped to my hand. “Mama said you’re giving me some of your blood so I can get better.”
My throat tightened. I reached out, gently brushing a lock of dark hair off his pale forehead.
“It doesn't hurt at all, Leo,” I said, my voice thick with a fierce, protective love I had never known was possible. “In fact, it’s the greatest honor of my life.”
The door opened softly, and Grace walked in. She was holding a cup of lukewarm tea, her eyes red-rimmed from crying earlier, but her posture carried a newfound strength I hadn't seen since we reunited in Chicago.
She walked over to the bed, stroked Leo’s cheek, and looked down at me across the mattress.
“The surgical team is ready for your pre-op staging in thirty minutes,” Grace said softly.
“I know,” I stood up from the plastic chair, smoothing down my hospital trousers. “I’ll be back before he wakes up from the procedure.”
Grace hesitated, watching me with a complex, unreadable expression. Then, softly, she reached out and straightened the collar of my gown—a small, domestic gesture of care that felt heavier and more valuable than any corporate handshake I had ever experienced.
“Thank you, Ryan,” she whispered.
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“Don't thank me for doing what any father should have done three years ago,” I replied, holding her gaze.
I turned and walked out of the room toward the surgical prep ward, knowing that tomorrow morning, I would bleed for my son—and in doing so, finally earn the right to be called his father.
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