She walked over to me and took my hands in hers. Her brown eyes reflected both love and deep sadness. “Creighton, if you do this, you’ll never be able to take that step. You’ll know God is there, but he’ll be unavailable to you. Who knows how long you’d be like that.”

“For eternity, if Bryson Nichols has his way.” I tried to give her a smile, but Abby remained somber.

She shook her head. “I’m worried about both your here and now and your eternity, Creighton. You know that.”

“I know.” I touched her soft cheek.

We were silent for a moment.

“Maybe God would make allowance for my fate under the circumstances,” I offered.

She released my hands and stepped to the window again. I knew she was concerned for me, but there seemed to be something more bothering her. “Abby, are you still holding out hope…for us?”

She stared outside. “I think so. I mean…I was.”

“Even after I allowed you to continue to believe Ray was dead?”

She turned toward me. “I don’t blame you for that, Creighton. Nichols made you an offer and attached conditions to it. Maybe you couldn’t think clearly about it, recognize his lies. It was a difficult situation for you.”

“But I betrayed you.” The tightness in my chest was back. It surfaced anytime I thought about what I had done to Abby.

She looked at me tenderly. “And it still hurts even though I’ve forgiven you. It’s just that, well, I know God changes hearts. I’ve been praying that he might change yours.” She appeared small beside the window, younger than thirty-four, like a girl. I wished that I could make her world perfect for her—wished that I hadn’t added to its imperfections.

“If I do the transplant, you’re afraid you’ll lose me.”

“Yes. I know I will.” She returned to the bedside and took my hand again in hers. “I haven’t been able to work it all out, Creighton. Your beliefs, my faith, Papua New Guinea. I just know I don’t want to lose you.”

I lay awake listening to the quiet, sleeping rhythm of Abby’s breathing as she lay on the cot next to my bed. I felt the warmth of her hand intertwined with mine. My brain—what was left of it—was a jumble of thoughts and emotions.

Was I capable of making a decision such as this? Of logically weighing the options, the risks, the probabilities? Of weighing not only my future but the future of possibly millions?