"Don't waste time," my mother says. The machines answer with steady beeps that slice the room into measured seconds. "She's young," Dr. Patel says. "We can attempt resuscitation. We can list her for an emergency transplant, but time is the variable." "We don't waste time," my mother repeats, louder now. Her hand is ice on the doctor's sleeve. "Maya needs—Maya is the one who will keep the family name." "You can't decide with words," Dr. Patel snaps. He keeps his voice low so the corridor doesn't fill with strangers, but his hands are wide, pleading. "She needs a chance. Pulseless electrical activity—there's a window, but it's closing." My father folds his arms as if sheltering himself from the idea of losing what he calls potential. "We've taken hits already. Scholarships, appearances. Not both twins. Not the scandal." "Then take her heart," my mother says so plainly my ears register the mechanics of the sentence before the horror does. "If one of you has to go, Kiara has fewer prospects. Maya's application—Dean Mitchell has already been in touch. She needs this." Dr. Patel's face hardens into a shape I have watched legal dramas make when a judge refuses a plea. "You can't—" "My child is dying," my father cuts in. "Do what you must." Maya is in the corner bed under a curtain; I can see the curve of her shoulder, the tremor of her breath