He hit the tree about the same time the first plane hit the tall building. He never knew what happened.
An otherwise healthy man with a broken neck and a signed donor card.
``Yes,'' his mother said, ``he would have wanted...''
So they harvested his organs. Skin. Kidneys. Heart. Bone. Liver.
The transplant people searched their data bases. They found a match for a kidney right in town. A match for the heart in Houston.
``But no planes are flying,'' an orderly said.
They had not thought.
The surgeons were outraged. Surely something could be arranged?
Not a chance. Even an angry surgeon could not back down a national emergency.
A woman in Sacramento could take the liver. But Sacramento was hundreds of miles away.
``I could drive it,'' said the orderly, ``I have a 99 Mustang.''
``No chance,'' they said. Not enough time. Too far, too far.
But they let him go. All paper work properly generated, all testing done. The orderly and a transplant technician pulled into the fast lane and drove as they dreamed of driving, the Mustang flying past all other drivers focused on their radios. They did not talk and they did not listen. They watched the road.
Somewhere south of Anderson the cop stopped them. He brightened considerably when he heard their problem.
``Escort!'' he said.
So they drove through the day behind flashing lights, laughing like maniacs.
When the time ran out they had a hundred and twelve miles to go.
``Don't stop,'' said the technician, ``because they might take it anyway.''
They continued.
``Too late, too late,'' they said at the medical center.
A yellow woman with black smudges under her eyes lay stick thin and bloated in a quiet room. Like every one she was watching the television.
``We're so sorry,'' the technician said.
``So sorry,'' said the orderly.
The woman pulled a weak smile. ``This is nothing,'' she said. She nodded at the television, ``Not compared to that.''
``But your life is equal to each one of those lost lives,'' the orderly said.
``But not all of them together,'' the woman answered.