They stood backstage.
A coordinator asked whether they needed anything.
The biker said:
“A less dramatic introduction.”
The coordinator promised nothing.
The young doctor laughed.
When they walked onto the stage, hundreds of people stood.
The biker immediately looked horrified.
She whispered:
“Your nightmare.”
“Absolutely.”
They sat.
The moderator asked the doctor what she remembered most about their first meeting.
She smiled.
“His face.”
The biker frowned.
“My face?”
“You looked terrified.”
“Because you attacked me.”
“I hugged you.”
“Unprovoked.”
People laughed.
Then she said:
“I remember thinking he was exactly what adults tell children not to run toward.”
The biker nodded.
“Finally, responsible advice.”
“But I had spent years looking at one small piece of him.”
She projected the old anonymous photograph behind them.
Hands.
Paper crane.
Compass tattoo.
“I knew that tattoo before I knew his face.”
The room became quiet.
“The registry protected our identities for good reasons.”
She continued.
“But when you’re five, anonymity is strange. I knew a person had given me something my body needed, but he was basically a number.”
She looked at the biker.
“The photograph made him human.”
The moderator asked him:
“And what made her human to you?”
He did not answer immediately.
Then smiled.
“The drawing.”
Another image appeared.
A purple stick figure.
A giant blue figure.
THIS IS ME AND THE PERSON WHO GAVE ME GOOD CELLS.
The audience laughed softly.
The biker looked at it.
“I had a number too.”
He said.
“Recipient number.”
He tapped the projected picture.
“Then I got this.”
He looked at the woman beside him.
“That was when the number became a kid.”
The moderator asked:
“If you could tell potential donors one thing, what would it be?”
The biker leaned back.
“I don’t think people should register because they want a moment like ours.”
The room became quiet.
“You may never meet the person.”
He continued.
“They may not survive.”
The doctor looked toward him.
“You may donate and never know what happened.”
He rubbed his old hands together.
“If you need gratitude to make it worthwhile, think carefully.”
Then:
“The point is giving someone a chance even when the ending doesn’t belong to you.”
The doctor smiled.
The moderator turned toward her.
“And you?”
She thought.
“If someone donates to you, you don’t owe them your life.”
The biker looked at her approvingly.
“You’re allowed to live it.”
She continued.
“My donor never asked me to become inspiring. He wanted me to have boring problems.”
The audience laughed.
“So I did.”
She smiled.
“I had friendship problems, math problems, bad dates, exams, parking tickets.”
The biker added: