Through the glass of the private recovery room, I watched my husband.

Preston sat in a padded rocking chair, humming a soft, off-key lullaby, and in his arms Grace was wide awake.

Her cheeks, once sunken and pale, were rosy and full.

Her stormy gray-blue eyes were bright and alert as she grabbed a fistful of her father’s shirt.

The transplant had been a grueling ordeal, but a complete success.

Her counts were normal. The mutation was dormant. Preston hadn’t left her side for a single day of her recovery.