"He wants to go home," whispered Amal, watching her father, now loaded into one of Cairo International Hospital's ER hallway stretchers.
"I know," I whispered back, holding her small hand, but we didn't even have his creatinine and potassium results back yet. Her dad wasn't going anywhere.
Even though her dad was sick, he wasn't sick enough to warrant the resuscitation room, or any room at all. He lay in the hallway, calling out for his son. Occasionally, he touched his left side. I'd seen the fresh, stapled incision, 15 cm long, above his anterior superior iliac spine.
At least he'd stopped vomiting, thanks in part to the bag of intravenous Ringer's lactate that Tucker and I had bought at the pharmacy en route.
"How is Hadi?" I asked Amal.
She shook her head. "They think his brain is gone."
I exhaled between my teeth. Hadi had nearly suffocated in the tunnels because his family needed money. Now his father had sold his kidney to pay Hadi's hospital bill. Yet the little boy might never recover. The whole thing made me want to cry.
Canadians donate organs. I'd heard of selling organs too, but it had seemed more like a made-up conspiracy thriller/horror movie plot than something that actually happened to living, breathing people.
The grandmother stood vigil at the dad's beside, speechless.
"Doesn't look good," Tucker whispered to me at the nursing station, after talking to the dad's doctors. "Egypt is a hub for organ trafficking. Even though it's illegal, there are plenty of scammers drugging people or coercing them into 'donating.' But if you sign all the papers, you're able to donate freely. And I think he signed everything."
I squeezed my eyes shut. "Amal said he did."
"Yemen is just about the poorest country in the world. They've got civil war. Starvation. Flooding. Half its hospitals don't work. Almost a fifth of the country has no doctor at all."
I listened in silence. I knew nothing about it. I'd even wondered if Amal had told the truth. Meanwhile, her family was literally dying of poverty.
"They come here because Egypt is one of the only countries that lets them in. Cairo is relatively affordable. You don't even need a visa if you're under 16 or over 50."
I frowned. The parents didn't look over 50, especially the mom.
"A doctor's note can get you in if you're under 50. They can write that you're coming for medical treatment. But you can't legally work here and take away jobs from Egyptians, which means you're stuck doing illegal work, harassed by authorities and getting poorer and poorer."
Scrounging for artifacts while tunnels collapse on you. Begging foreign student doctors for money.
"Selling your kidney sounds like a way out, even if it's against your beliefs. But you either get paid bupkes or you don't get paid at all. The operation might give you hepatitis. You might go into renal failure or liver failure. You can't do the physical jobs you did before because you're in chronic pain. It's a death sentence."
I recoiled, surveying Amal's father's face from 20 feet away. He'd fallen asleep during Tucker's update, too exhausted to stay awake.
"You think my father's going to die?" Amal had snuck over to listen. Her high, clear voice rang in our ears.
Tucker wrenched his head down to meet her eyes. "Oh. Amal. No, I never said that. I didn't—I mean—"
"He might die. My brother might die too. And then who will protect us? My grandmother is too old, I am too young, and my mother is pregnant."
Of course she is. I held my head as a headache drilled its way back into my temples. "Amal, we're sorry you heard that. Dr. Tucker was talking in general. We're trying to make your father as strong as possible so he can help look after you."
She stared up at me, her little chin jutting in the air. "No one is going to save us. We're going to die here, just like we would back home."
"No!" said Tucker. "I've got that fundraiser going. We'll raise more money for your dad, too. It's no trouble!"
She patted his hand. "You are a very nice man, Dr. Tucker. We thank you for everything you're doing."
Her tiny, patient resignation undid me. I cleared my throat. I refused to cry over a seven-year-old. "Amal, now that we know your brother's hospital, and your grandmother has given me permission to access your father's account here, I'll see if anyone can help pay." I'd already fired the information off to Isabelle.
Amal turned her Bambi eyes on me. "I know you're doing everything you can, Dr. Hope. We appreciate it so much. My mother wanted to tell you that."
"Where is your mother?" I looked from Amal to her father in his stretcher, her grandmother at his side. "Is she with your brother?"
Amal studied her toes and wiggled them in her sandals. "She is trying to find more money to pay for the hospitals."
"Oh, Amal. What is she doing?"
The little girl shook her head without answering.