The needle pricked my arm, cold sliding into my vein. I didn’t flinch. Across the room, Dad held Lydia’s hand like she was the one being cut open.\n\n"You’re doing the right thing, Josie," he said, voice thick with pride. Not concern. Not love. Pride.\n\nThe anesthesiologist counted down. I stared at the ceiling tiles, memorizing cracks. This wasn’t consent. It was inheritance. A daughter’s duty paid in flesh.\n\nWhen I wake up, I’ll be half of what I was. And he’ll still call it a miracle.