Holly and Marcus Foster. My superheroes. I half-expect her to burst in here, sporting a Wonder Woman getup. Getting a kidney from Gal Gadot would be a bonus.

That’s just wishful thinking though. I’ve got my eye out for a man and a woman more my parents’ age or older. Kidney failure isn’t something people as young as me normally deal with. I’m an outlier.

Yay me.

My glasses slide down my nose as I bend over the book in my lap. I should’ve brought one of my textbooks, but studying political science isn’t as interesting as reading a novel. Normally, I can get lost in a good story, but today, I can’t get through a paragraph without glancing at the door.

Finally, it opens, and in walk a middle-aged man and woman.

They’re obviously here together, her hand wrapped around his forearm. She has her dyed blonde hair pulled back from a round face, making it easy to see her thin lips pinched together. The man looks like any military movie drill sergeant with buzzed hair and steely eyes.

They have to be the Fosters.

I almost jump up and introduce myself, even consider kneeling and kissing Holly’s feet. But I don’t do that because Mr. Foster looks like a man who throws punches first and asks questions never. Better wait for the doctors to call us in.

I’ve no idea if they’ll even be interested in talking to my cousin, Fred, and me over the next few months. They might be good with a quick hello and then radio silence until surgery day.

The Fosters sit down on the other side of the room in the only two remaining empty chairs.

It’s depressing how crowded the waiting room is. When I got here, I ruled everyone present out as possibly being Holly and her brother. A few older men with varying shades of gray hair are scattered around. An elderly woman sits with a young girl, clasping her hand and holding tight to a rosary. A father whispers in Spanish to his preteen boy. A guy with darker skin, who I’d guess is in his thirties, has a sketchpad propped in his lap. And then a young woman sits on her own, next to Holly.

Staring at the two people I’ve been waiting for, while creepy, makes sense. Staring at the mystery girl beside them is only reasonable if you ask my dick for input.

She has a textbook on her lap, and she taps the end of a highlighter on her full bottom lip, like she’s trying to draw attention to it. What man wouldn’t want to get a closer look at that pouty mouth? Of course, I’m making up the invitation. She only has eyes for her book.

Most people here are obviously sick. It’s in the way their skin looks or a smell they have. Or the fear mixed with depression on their faces.

This girl should be on a billboard advertising health. And swimsuits.