David Sullivan never thought much about his kidneys. They were just two bean-shaped organs buried somewhere in his body, doing their job without complaint. Until one of them stopped.

It started with exhaustion—deep, bone-weary fatigue that coffee couldn’t fix. Then came the nausea, the swelling in his legs, the dull ache in his lower back. He ignored it, blamed it on stress, until one morning, he collapsed on his way to the bathroom.

The hospital smelled of antiseptic and something David couldn’t place—maybe fear. The doctor’s words were a blur: “Kidney failure… dangerously low function… we have to remove it.”

“But… I have two,” David murmured, still dazed.

“Now, you’ll have one,” the doctor said gently.

The surgery was scheduled immediately. As he lay on the hospital bed, staring at the ceiling, reality hit him. One kidney. Would it be enough? Would he be enough?

Recovery was slow. He learned that his body would adjust, but there were rules now. No more alcohol. No reckless eating. Regular check-ups. A single kidney meant a single chance—if this one failed, there was no backup.

Life shrank and stretched in strange ways. He avoided salt, counted his water intake, and read labels like his life depended on it—because it did. Nights were spent wondering what would happen if his remaining kidney ever gave out.

But as months passed, David found a strange kind of strength. He wasn’t broken, just different. His body had fought to keep him alive, and he owed it the same effort.

One kidney, one life.

And he would make the most of it.