The day I decided to donate my body, I called my brother Shawn Wells — someone I hadn't spoken to in seven years. He took a long time to answer. As soon as he picked up, I got straight to the point. Then I added, cautiously, "It's just a signature. Won't take much of your time." He muttered, "You're insane," and hung up. So I had no choice. I packed up the paperwork and traveled all the way to the city where he lived. Unfortunately, I showed up during his busiest time. He signed the form without hesitation, without even glancing at me. The only thing he said, irritated, was, "Add this: when you actually die, don't bother telling me." I nodded. "Okay." After teaching my last medical lab class, I was walking out of the building with my lesson plans when I suddenly tripped — out of nowhere, right on flat ground. I must've twisted my calf. It was a short walk back to my office, yet by the time I got there, a cold sweat had broken out on my back. Since I had no more classes that afternoon, I decided to drive myself to the hospital. I kept the explanation simple. "Probably just overworked lately. A bit run-down, maybe caught a chill. "Could I get something for the sprain? Some cold medicine too, if that's okay." Instead, the doctor handed me a thick stack of test orders and insisted I get a full check-up. The results came back the next day. I stared at the diagnosis — a long, complex medical term: Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis. After a long silence, I looked up at the doctor. "I don't quite understand." He confirmed again that I was alone, then explained gently, and carefully, "In simple terms, it's ALS. Also known as Lou Gehrig's disease." I was a medical instructor. Of course I knew what it meant. What I didn't understand was — how did a disease this rare find its way to me? I took a two-week leave and shut myself in at home, trying to process the weight of it all. It wasn't until the final two days of that leave that I came to terms with the diagnosis — and made a decision. If I was going to die, then I wanted my body donated to the university where I taught, to contribute to ALS research. I filled out the donation form. The only blank space left was the family signature. My fingers clenched the pen so tightly, my knuckles turned white. These days, he was the only family I had left — if I could still call him that. Dusk fell. The bedroom was quiet and cold. I picked up my phone. After a long pause — after seven years — I dialed his number again. "Could you… help me sign a body donation form?" The call went through. I forced myself to explain why I was calling, but there was only silence on the other end. Seconds ticked by. In that unbearable stillness—so quiet you could hear a pin drop—my heart crept up into my throat. My palms were damp, and out of nowhere, my eyes welled with tears. I thought I'd already come to terms with it all. I thought I'd accepted it. But in that moment, in his silence, I suddenly felt it again—grief, and a deep, creeping fear of death. Trying to steady myself, I spoke again, "Can you hear me? "It's just a signature. I promise, it won't take much of your time." Still nothing. Seven years without a word—part of me started to wonder if this was even his number anymore. I asked carefully, "Are you… Shawn?" This time, his voice finally came through—cold, impatient, laced with disgust. "You're insane." It was him. No doubt about it. Shawn. My throat tightened. Before I could say another word, the call cut off—just the flat, final beep of a disconnected line. Seven years apart, and clearly, his hatred hadn't faded in the slightest. But without a family member's signature, the body donation paperwork wouldn't go through. That much I knew. The doctor had told me: ALS was unpredictable. Sometimes it dragged on for a year or two. Other times, you were lucky to get a few weeks. One by one, your limbs—and then your organs—just started to shut down. There was no telling when it'd start. When I'd lose the ability to walk, or hold a pen. When breathing became hard. When words stopped forming. So the things that needed doing… I'd better get them done now. I booked a flight for that night and made the long trip to the city where Shawn lived. We'd been out of touch for so long that, even after landing in Egirie, it took a lot of effort just to figure out where he might be. By the time I made it to the restaurant, it was already the next morning. But the security guard at the entrance blocked me without hesitation. Seeing I wasn't backing down, the middle-aged man said coolly, "Mr. Wells of Wells Group is having his birthday party today. "He's reserved the whole place. No outsiders allowed." I tried to stay calm and polite. "I'm here to see Mr. Wells. "I… I'm his sister." Technically, I was his only sibling. But saying the words out loud made me feel strangely ashamed. Like I didn't have the right to call myself that anymore. I couldn't even lift my head. The guard clearly didn't buy it. He reached out to push me away. Just then, the glass doors slid open. And from inside, someone began walking toward us. A deep, familiar voice cut through the air, laced with sarcasm. "Well, look who's shameless enough to show up."