Story code: ST-001376
Part 4: The Final Printout
The green screen of the tablet cast a pale light over Mark’s face. The silence in the waiting room was absolute, broken only by the distant chime of the elevator down the hall. Sarah stood up. She did not look at Mark. She picked up her canvas purse from the chair next to her, slinging the strap over her shoulder.
“Sarah, wait,” Mark said, his voice rising slightly but remaining low enough to avoid drawing the attention of the front desk staff. “We can talk to the doctor. We can tell them there was an error with the portal.”
Sarah did not answer. She pulled her green sweater tight around her chest, tucked her phone into her pocket, and walked toward the exit doors. The automatic glass doors slid open with a soft hiss, then closed behind her, leaving Mark alone at the table.
Mark sat in silence for a long moment. He looked down at the tablet, where the prompt for his signature continued to flash.
“If you exit the portal now, Mr. Sterling,” I said, keeping my voice even and professional, “the system will log this as a formal match refusal. The registry status will update, and a notification will be sent to the recipient’s primary care team explaining that the matched donor declined to sign.”
Mark’s hand hovered over the table. “And if I sign?”
“The surgical schedule will lock in for Tuesday morning, as planned,” I said. “Your sister’s name will be permanently cleared from the candidate pool for this recipient, and the clinic will process your pre-operative intake.”
He looked at the digital signature line. His fingers trembled slightly as he reached out and took the stylus from the side of the tablet. He did not look at me.
Slowly, Mark pressed the stylus to the screen. He traced his name on the line. The system beeped once, a high, clear tone that signaled the lock was complete. The screen transitioned to a confirmation receipt: Donor Registration Confirmed. Surgical Intake Scheduled.
I reached out and took the tablet from the table. I printed two copies of the confirmation sheet, the printer behind my desk whirring to life in the quiet room. I handed one copy to Mark.
He took the paper without looking up. He folded it twice, sliding it into the inner pocket of his jacket, covering the green silicone band completely.
“Your pre-op appointment is tomorrow at eight,” I said.
Mark stood up. He adjusted his collar, looked at the empty chair where Sarah had been sitting, and walked slowly toward the exit. He did not check his phone, nor did he run his hands over his face. He simply pushed through the heavy glass doors and disappeared into the gray afternoon light.
The waiting room was empty now. I wiped down the laminate table with a disinfectant cloth, placing the tablet back in its charging cradle. The silence of the clinic settled back into the room, cold and heavy, leaving nothing but the faint scent of antiseptic and the empty vinyl chairs.