Almost to the end, people. Almost.
“Just a little more.”
The technician smiles at me as more red runs from my arm into the ballooning bag. He’s a nice young man with kind eyes and a smile that reassures. Someone the organization will lose once he gets another job offer.
But for now he’s mine, coaxing just a little more from my vein.
“It’s very rare,” he says again. “Your blood type. I’ve only seen one other in all the years.”
I nod, wondering why someone who looks no older than a high-schooler would say it that way. All the years.
The bag is full and he attaches another. I try to say something, to complain that that is enough. I’m old and don’t make the red stuff as fast as I used to.
But he pushes me back into my seat and smiles again, his teeth whiter now.
“Just a little more,” he says, and grins.