The consent form I had received from Dr. McCain was too wordy, very complicated for a mechanic’s assistant like me. It contained: the risks of heart transplant, transplant procedure, blood transfusion, anaesthesia, and patient consent. I wouldn’t read more that pathetic tiny font, my eyes felt itchy. Nevertheless, Dr. McCain only required me to sign on the footer so as to give them a full consent to replace my heart. But still, questions flooded my mind. I looked at Bettie and Dr. McCain back and forth—they both smiled. “Was my mom’s fundraiser a success?” I asked.

Dr. McCain nodded his head no. “Someone who wishes to remain anonymous is running an online fundraiser for you.”

“Oh, thank you,” I said; “I wish him or her a long life.”

“I’ll let them know,” said Dr. McCain, handing me a pen, and I accepted it.

But again, I asked, “Whose heart will you give me?”

Dr. McCain huffed as if I was not required to know about my heart donor. He lowered his bushy eyebrows and stared at Bettie. “Is that good for our ethics?” he asked her.

“Yes, he has a right to know about his heart donor,” responded Bettie; “let him have the information he requests.”

Dr. McCain turned back to me. “A heart donor is always dead.”

“I know that. I read that somewhere on Google,” I said.

Dr. McCain exhaled noisily. “Your heart donor was Dr. Wheelbarrow, a former colleague of ours. He passed away five days ago.”

I had knowledge of a wheelbarrow and how it works, but I knew nothing about Dr. Wheelbarrow. All eyes were on me.

“Okay, doctor. May his soul rest well,” I said with respect. My mind convinced my fingers to jot down my silly signature. I consented without a second thought.

“Thank you.” Dr. McCain took over the signed consent form and his pen. “You can now eat your breakfast,” he said as he was leaving.

My eyes landed on Bettie who was smiling. “Why smiling?”

“It’s psychology,” said Bettie, “I smile at my patients, and the majority of those who recovered thanked me for that.”

“Oh, okay.” I found myself smiling too. I had a question for her or I would call it a request. So, I relaxed my cheeks. “Do you have a photo of Dr. Wheelbarrow?” I asked.

“Nope, I deleted all his photos from my phone a year ago. You want his photo so bad?” Bettie was a talkative blonde or I thought so.

“Yep, yep.” I nodded my head twice. “But why would you delete it?”

“He was my ex,” whispered Bettie, exiting. She returned with her starlight iPhone and she passed it to me. “Swipe right,” she said, an instruction.