Callie Porter’s office door closed with the finality of a casket lid. There were no more appointments before Helen aged up, no more prospective parents to adopt a thirteen-year-old girl with a lazy eye and seventy-four IQ. Callie sank back in her chair. Helen was due at the Youth Work Center on Monday. What if they assigned her to the military? She didn’t have an aggressive bone in her body. 

Callie sighed. What would Helen have been like if her mom hadn’t been high on zoom during her pregnancy? If only people could see she was so much more than her stats and photo. 

The office door creaked, and Helen ambled in. She’d received state-mandated growth accelerators over the past year to prepare her body for adult work. Nearly six-feet tall, she still wore her hair in pigtails and ribbons. Each day had its own color. Fridays were blue.  

“Hi, Mrs. P.” Helen had never outgrown her lisp. “Whatcha doing? Can I help?” 

Callie handed her a case of markers. “I noticed these aren’t in rainbow order. Can you fix that?” 

“Sure.” Helen plopped down, grinning. “But one of these days, you need to learn how.”  

“I don’t think I’d ever be as good as you.” 

While Helen organized, Callie read case files. Two new children were arriving next week: siblings, ages two and four, parents killed in a car crash. Cute kids without physical or mental flags in their files. Kids she could place, maybe even together. 

“Done!” Helen jumped up and handed her the case. 

“I think that’s your fastest time yet!” Callie gave her a high-five. “Now why don’t you go play outside until dinner?” 

Helen scampered away. A few minutes later, Callie looked out the window to find her on the rusty seesaw, counterbalanced by three other kids. Up and down they went, their faces lit with glee. Her throat tightened. The agency kids, who had so little, found joy in the simplest things. 

*     *     *
That night, Callie lay in bed with her wife. “I wish we could adopt her.” 

Skylar sighed. “If only that transplant would come through…” 

Skylar’s health had deteriorated to the point where she’d given up teaching and spent most of the day in bed. I’m just a long, floppy noodle, she’d joke. 

“I shouldn’t keep bringing it up. You have enough to worry about.” Callie rolled onto her back. “No word on a donor?” 

“No … and Bobby Thaxton just moved to the top of the list.” 

“The football player? I hate that government formulas decide whose life matters most.” 

“Not to mention he tanked my fantasy team last year.” Skylar tiptoed her fingers up Callie’s arm. “Now if it were Ozzie Vega, I’d gladly sacrifice myself.” 

“I love you.” Tears welled in Callie’s eyes as she kissed her cheek. She wanted to do more, but Skylar’s heart couldn’t risk it. At the same time, though, it was enough. 

They lay in silence, holding hands. 

“What if she’s drafted, Sky?” Callie asked. “She’d never survive combat.”

“Surely they’ll see her gentle soul and assign her somewhere else.” Skylar squeezed her hand. 

Soon, Skylar drifted off to sleep, but Callie stared at the moon, praying Helen wouldn’t be sent to defend it. 

*     *     *
Monday dawned bright, a little too bright for Callie’s mood, as she drove Helen to the center. Helen sat in silence, hands twisting in her lap. Her red ribbons drooped like wilted petals. 

Callie forced a smile. “No matter what they assign you, you’re going to do something important.”  

“I’m going to miss you, Mrs. P. And Donny and Becky ….” Her voice caught. “But I want to help people. Like you helped me.”  

“I’m sure they’ll find the perfect job.” She kept her tone light. 

After they hugged goodbye, Callie handed Helen a pouch of colored pens. “Write me, okay?” 

*     *     *
A week later, Skylar was approved for a transplant. Callie spent three days pacing the hospital halls before she was moved out of the ICU. 

“She needs to stay another week as a precaution,” the doctor said, “but we expect a full recovery.” 

“Full?” Callie grinned. 

“That means,” Skylar began. 

“Helen,” they said together. 

“You really want to do this?” Callie asked. 

Skylar nodded. “I do.”

“Can you tell me anything about the donor?” Callie asked the doctor. “I’d like to thank the family.” 

The doctor consulted his charts. “Anonymous donor. No contact information, but that’s not unusual. Some families find it too painful.” 

That night, after Skylar fell asleep, Callie returned home for the first time since the surgery. She searched the mailbox for Helen’s large, colorful handwriting but only found ads and bills. At least they’d have her soon. 

The next day, she called the center to begin the adoption process. 

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the guy on the phone said. “She was transferred to the recycling plant.” 

Callie breathed a sigh of relief. Sorting tasks were ideal for Helen. “Where? I’ll go pick her up.” 

“Somewhere in Westsect. Joyce! Like my aunt’s name. Or Mary. That’s my other aunt.” 

“I’ll look it up myself.” 

Callie found an address for a national recycling plant near Joyous, but no website or phone number. Even so, she decided to drive up that weekend. 

*     *     *
With a Welcome Home cake in the back seat, Callie set off. Four hours later, she was surrounded by sand and scrub. This area was as joyous as Greenland was green, but she wasn’t there for the scenery. 

A windowless block of a building punctuated the road’s end. That had to be it. She’d see those purple pigtails soon. 

A medical helicopter waited out front. Callie clenched the steering wheel. Relax. Helen’s fine. She’s healthy as a horse. 

After parking, she texted Skylar: Arrived safely. 

As she unbuckled her seatbelt, two men rushed across the tarmac holding a white box emblazoned with bold, red letters. Human Organ for Transplant. 

Callie went limp. 

From her lap, her phone buzzed with Skylar’s response: Bring our girl home.