“You stole my hair,” Wyatt said. “It looks better on you.”
She laughed so hard the nurse had to tell her to breathe.
Diane was sitting in the corner chair. She stood up when she saw me. For a moment, neither of us knew what to do.
Then she nodded. Once.
I nodded back.
It was a start.
The infusion took eleven minutes.
That was all. A small bag, about the size of a sandwich bag, hung on her IV pole. Cloudy. Pale yellow. Her own cells, reprogrammed in a lab, dripping back into her through a tube.
Graham stood on one side of her bed. Diane on the other. Wyatt and I stood by the window.
When the bag was empty, the nurse said, “Happy birthday, Harper.”
Harper looked confused.
“It’s what we say,” the nurse said. “Day Zero. Your new birthday. Your new immune system starts today.”
Harper looked at Wyatt.
