“Her absolute neutrophil count is dangerously low, Mr. Waverly,” said Dr. Aris, a hematologist Preston had flown in by helicopter, studying the fresh labs.

“The Waverly mutation is aggressive. We need a marrow match within forty-eight hours, or her immune system collapses.”

I sat in the vinyl chair in the corner, my arms aching with emptiness without Grace against my chest, and watched Preston pace like a caged animal.

He’d already rolled up the sleeve of his two-thousand-dollar shirt, offering his arm to the phlebotomist for the tissue-typing test.

“I’m her father. I have to be a match,” he said, his voice tight with a desperate edge I’d never heard from him. “Just tell me what you need. Take whatever you want.”

“It’s a genetic lottery, Preston,” I said softly, hoarse from crying in the bathroom an hour earlier. “Parents are usually only a half-match. Because of her specific mutation, she needs a perfect one.