‘Lungs,’ said the surgeon, ‘are a difficult organ to transplant.’

‘Why?’

‘The tissue is extremely fragile. The alveoli, they’re minuscule and easily damaged. The cells are metabolically very active so we have only a little time between harvest and transplant. A few hours. You’ll be on call. It will be your responsibility to get to the hospital on time.’

There was talk of what recovery would be like, swapping the old cystic fibrosis daily treatments, which Anouk has lived with all her life, for a new regime, new medications to deal with the complexities of rejection. ‘This probably isn’t what you wanted to hear,’ the surgeon said.

These words, more than any of the others, made Anouk angry. As if she had been deluded all along and now here she was, hearing the truth for the first time.

Nora puts her hand on Anouk’s knee. ‘Are you tired?’ she says. ‘Long drive today.’

‘I think I’ll stay out a bit longer.’

‘Then I’m going in for another beer,’ says Nora, hoisting herself out of the chair.

Cold air on Anouk’s legs from where Nora has lifted the blanket. ‘Get me one too.’

Nora stops, looks at her. Considers.

‘It’s my birthday.’

They smile at each other, two smiles weighted and complicit. They were never sure until now they’d make it this far.

Before the transplant team would agree to put Anouk’s name on the donor list, she and her mother were subjected to what felt like a trial. There were meetings with her surgeon and other surgeons, a nutritionist, a psychologist and a physiotherapist. Also, a doctor of bones. A doctor of kidneys. Nearly every body part represented. The team had to agree that Anouk and Nora would behave, could handle the pressures both pre- and post-op, would do what they were told. They had to determine whether she would put forth her best effort to survive. What she was going to be given was precious.

The dock pitches slightly with Nora’s retreat and Anouk looks out across the water. About an hour ago she thought she saw a golden eagle. Nora thought it was a hawk but Anouk is pretty sure it’s an eagle. And she knows of an island, out of the many islands in this river, she knows there’s one close where eagles often nest. She used to see them when she was small, riding in the aluminum outboard with her dad, Red. They’re rare, but they’re here.

Someone is out there in the world breathing through a pair of healthy, pink lungs that are going to end up in Anouk’s body. She inhales deeply, or tries to. Her lungs snag against their cavity walls like sandpaper. Healthy lungs, the CF specialist explained, are springy and spongy. If poked, they would give way and pop back like pillows. They have sharp-edged fissures that fill efficiently with air. Anouk’s lungs have hardened. They’re gnarled. Riddled with cysts and pockets of pus. They’re the colour of dung. The description makes her think of a piece of gristle, or a wad of gum drying on the edge of a dinner plate.