P.S. If you let anyone name a building after me, I will find a way back.
Claire pressed the paper against her face and cried harder than she had at the funeral.
Not because of death.
Because Lily was still issuing instructions while insisting she was not issuing instructions.
Two weeks later, St. Catherine’s called again.
Claire nearly declined.
Then remembered the letter.
The person on the phone was Dr. Hannah Patel, director of living donor services.
They had met several times over the years.
Hannah was in her late fifties, controlled, compassionate, and almost aggressively practical.
“Claire, I’m sorry to call so soon.”
“You already sent flowers.”
“This isn’t about memorial.”
“Good.”
“It’s about the donor support fund.”
Claire became still.
The Raymond Bishop Living Donor Assistance Fund had changed names twice over the decades.
Raymond’s name eventually disappeared when Iron Covenant formally transferred administration to the hospital foundation.
By the time Lily was elderly, it was simply the Regional Living Donor Support Fund.
No motorcycle logo.
No memorial language.
It paid practical expenses that insurance often did not.
Travel.
Hotels.
Childcare.
Some lost wages.
Postoperative meal assistance.
Parking.
The fund was never large enough.
“What happened?” Claire asked.
“Nothing dramatic.”
“Then why call me?”
“Because your mother was one of three community advisers.”
“I know.”
“We’ve lost two in eighteen months.”
“Who’s the other?”
“Retiring.”
Claire leaned back.
“No.”
Hannah was silent.
Claire immediately felt guilty.
“I’m sorry.”
“No apology needed.”
“I just—”
“I know.”
“My mother literally wrote me a note saying I could say no.”
Hannah laughed.
“That sounds like Lily.”
Claire looked at the letter on her table.
“She also said to remember gas money.”
Now Hannah became quiet.
“Yes.”
Claire heard something in her tone.
“What?”
“We may lose part of the transportation grant.”
“How much?”
Hannah told her.
Claire swore.
“That’s almost half the annual travel assistance.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“The private foundation changed priorities.”
“To what?”
“Cancer navigation.”
Claire stopped herself from becoming angry.
Cancer navigation mattered.
Every cause could be worthy at once.
Scarcity made people feel as though compassion required choosing enemies.
“What do you want from me?”
“Not money.”
“Good.”
“I don’t have Raymond money.”
Hannah laughed.
“Raymond did not have Raymond money either.”
“Motorcycle clubs raised most of it.”
“I know.”
“We want someone on advisory board who understands recipient and donor side.”
Claire looked at the scar along her lower abdomen.
Her own donation scar.
She had given a kidney in a paired exchange to help her mother receive another one.
She understood enough.
Maybe too much.
“How many meetings?”
“Quarterly.”
“Real quarterly or hospital quarterly?”
Hannah laughed again.