His Second Heart

"Jordan Salazar, do you have any idea what time it is? You're still in bed?!"

My mother, Patricia Salazar's furious pounding on the door jolted me awake. I struggled upright and glanced at the clock on my nightstand.

My heart dropped. I was five minutes late!

I threw on my clothes and washed up as fast as I could. The familiar burning in my stomach followed me like a shadow, a ball of fire twisting deeper inside with every movement.

I ignored it and hurried downstairs.

The first thing that greeted me was my mother's dark expression.

Her voice was sharp with anger. "How many times have I told you? You run at six o'clock every morning and eat breakfast at seven sharp.

"This is how you act as my son? This is how you're making up for what happened to your brother?"

I lowered my head. My lips moved, but no words came out.

"Do you think we're hurting you?" She stood and walked toward me before pressing a finger against my chest, right above my heart.

"We're strict with you because we need you healthy. If you get careless for even a second and something happens to this heart, how are you going to answer Nathaniel? How are you going to answer to the family?"

The same words. Always the same words. I'd heard them tens of thousands of times over the past decade.

Ten years ago, on the day I was finally brought back to the Salazars, Nathaniel Salazar—the adopted son they had raised for eighteen years in my place—suddenly died from heart failure.

My biological sister, Alyssa, was devastated. She said I'd killed my own brother.

She withdrew from the world and devoted herself to prayer, spending her days seeking peace for Nathaniel's soul and vowing never to return to ordinary life.

Overnight, my parents lost the son they loved most and the daughter they were proudest of.

And somehow, all of it became my original sin.

To make amends, they told me about a distant young relative suffering from severe heart disease who desperately needed a transplant.

Years earlier, that boy had saved Nathaniel's life. They told me that if I gave him my heart, Nathaniel would finally forgive me.

From that day forward, I stopped being a person. I became a walking organ donor.

"Jordan, your mother only wants what's best for you." My father, Richard Salazar, folded his newspaper and stepped neatly into his usual role as peacemaker.

"Everything we're doing is for your health. Don't worry. Once your heart is transplanted into your cousin, I'll make sure you get the best artificial heart in the world. You'll still live a long and active life afterward."

A long and active life?

I stared at the false warmth on his face as the pain in my stomach worsened.

To end the daily trial as quickly as possible, I lowered my head and delivered the apology I'd repeated countless times before.

"I'm sorry, Dad. Mom. I was wrong. It won't happen again."

I'd hoped the apology might at least earn me breakfast.

Instead, my mother let out a cold laugh. "If you make a mistake, you get punished. No breakfast today. Go think about what you've done. And while you're at it, think about how Nathaniel died."

My heart sank. The cramping in my stomach became so intense that my vision flickered at the edges.

I simply nodded, picked up my bag, and left for school on an empty stomach.

The entire morning passed in a blur. The words on the board and in my textbooks dissolved into meaningless symbols drifting across my vision.

The burning in my stomach only grew worse. Cold sweat soaked through my shirt and clung to my back.

By the time the lunch bell finally rang, I practically ran out of the classroom toward the cafeteria. I just wanted to buy a plain bread roll.

"Jordan!" Ms. Michelle Ramirez, my homeroom teacher, called from behind me. "Come to my office for a moment."

My footsteps stopped. A terrible feeling settled over me.

When I walked into the office, I saw my mother sitting across from my teacher.

Why was she here?

I approached carefully, my voice barely a whisper. "Mom, what are you doing here?"

The answer came in the form of a sharp slap across my face.

Smack.