I've always considered myself careful on the road. The morning started as usual: I started the car, turned on my favorite music and headed to the university. But at one point, everything around me changed. I remember how cold I felt in an instant — there was an accident. Before I knew what had happened, my car flipped over and stopped, and lights appeared all around. I heard screams, sirens, and everything blurred before my eyes. As they pulled me out of the car, I tried to concentrate, but my body wouldn't listen. I remember the faces of the doctors, their tense expressions as they put on an IV and gave injections. Fragments of phrases about the urgent need to get me to the operating room. I tried to speak, but the words wouldn't come out—just a quiet whisper inside me, full of pain and uncertainty. I fell into blackness, and when I opened my eyes again, I found myself in a hospital room. It felt strange: white walls, the smell of antiseptics, and the rustle of medical devices. I tried to sit up, but my body wouldn't obey, and I fell back onto the pillow. At that moment, a nurse appeared in the room. She was kind, with attentive eyes and a warm voice. "You're okay, don't worry," she said, and I felt a little relief in her words. She told me about a man named Johnny McTavish, who had donated my blood. The nurse's words seemed to cut to the heart. I didn't know how to react. Soon the door opened a crack, and he –Johnny-entered the room. His face was pale, and his eyes were full of regret and guilt. He looked like he was carrying the weight of the whole world. "How are you feeling?" - he asked softly, as if he was afraid that his words might cause me even more pain. I looked at him and saw not only the culprit, but also the person who couldn't stay away.