“Her neutrophil count is rising.

Engraftment is successful.” Emeka covered his face with his hands, his shoulders shaking.

Four years earlier a doctor had walked toward him in a hallway with a death sentence for Adanna.

This time the news brought someone back.

It was the symmetry that broke him — the same building, the same antiseptic smell, the same white corridor, the same figure of a doctor walking toward him with a piece of paper that would decide everything.

He had lived that exact scene before, in the worst version.