I stand in the line at the Starbucks down the street from work when the frizzy haired ginger lady in front of me complains for the fourth time about how little sugar is in her coffee. I look down at my watch to see that the little hand is now five notches away from me being late to work. I roll my eyes at the thought of being late because of this self-centered perfectionist of a woman who stands five people from me. I sigh and rush out the coffee shop.
Looking at my watch again I see that I have thirty seconds to be three blocks down. Not caring I walk onto the crosswalk while it was red. A car horn rang through my ears then the screeching of someone slamming on their breaks. The last thing I remember seeing was a man with dark hair jump into the street at me and push me out of the way.
I have no idea where I am until I am told by the nurse checking my vitals. I ask about the man who saved my life. They tell me he is dying and needs a heart transplant but they don’t have a donor.

I take the pen and clipboard in my hand. Tears fill my eyes as I sign the release papers.
“Ma’am, are you sure?”
I look the nurse in eyes, “He saved my life. He needs a donor. I’m the only match. It’s his turn to be saved.”