I blink. Stunned by the assumption.
There’s a photo. A woman I’ve never seen. Her tear-streaked face front and center, an image of a young man, maybe twenty, clutched in her hands.
My son never stood a chance. Antonia Cole chose to sacrifice him.
Sacrifice? I sound like a ritual sadist, not a woman trying to make the correct decision about medical provisions based on the information given by professionals. It continues that she has proof that doctors recommended her son over the other patient, but it was my choice to allocate elsewhere.
My gaze moves to the bauble-filled box sitting innocent on the coffee table. Part of me is relieved my son didn’t live to see me labeled a murderer.
I return to the name: Longdown. It doesn’t ring any bells.
For a moment, I consider phoning Clara, then remember it’s Christmas Day. I return to my screen, opening the database and searching the patient’s name: Daniel Longdown.
His profile pops up.
Twenty-two years old.
Rare genetic condition results in premature death. Not expected to live until thirty.
Professional assessment: Approved for trial.
Opengate decision: Rejected due to failed toxicology. Patient is a known drug user. Heroin. Other candidates better suited. Limited stock.
I read the entry twice. Limited stock. Toxicology risk. Compliance risk. Correct decision.
I move to Julian’s next email.
What I find is not an email but a speech. Line after line of suggestions with little to no room for negotiation. He wants more PR coverage. More interviews. More personal input from Ben.
Our reputation is sinking again, Antonia. We need this.
You chose a forty-year-old over a twenty-two-year-old with same condition. They have medical notes. They’re going to go public.
We need a buffer.
That jogs my memory. The whole debate screaming back to life. The choice was whether we allocate treatment to the forty-year-old man who’d lived far beyond what was expected or to the younger man who abused his body through choice. There’d been no right answer; no one else would make the call.
Both patients had been approved.
I chose the man who would live responsibly with the gift.
And now, I’m being called a killer for it.
My hands tremble. I slam the laptop closed.
This day is done.