This was an emergency. My mind raced. It could be nothing. It could be something. It could be congenital or genetic. Or then again, it could be nothing

"Hi there.” George waved a gloved hand, making a show of allowing me entrance to Cornell’s parking garage.

“Thanks!” I waved back. “It’s cold out here, George, stay safe, and happy New Year.” I neatly maneuvered the car and retrieved my liaison badge from the dashboard so I’d be allowed entry into the hospital.

Even the few seconds of spotty reception in the garage were a few seconds too many. Predictably, my phone buzzed as soon as I stepped outside.

I skirted a sign in front of a CVS pharmacy reading No Mask, No Entry and blinked in the sunlight. I pulled on my mask and resigned myself to a couple of hours of oxygen deprivation.

“Hello?”

“Mrs. Waller?” It was Sima Hoffer calling from the Mayo Clinic in Minnesota.

“Yes, Sima,” I said warmly.

Yad Perel had coordinated her husband’s transfer to the Mayo Clinic. It hadn’t been simple, but it had to be done. He’d almost lost his battle with COVID, and although he survived by a miracle, his kidney function was compromised, and the local hospitals were too overwhelmed to treat him properly.

“I just wanted to share with you that Shloimy’s kidney function went up to 60 percent over Shabbos. His system is really waking up!”

“Baruch Hashem, Sima! That’s wonderful news. Does the doctor come in regularly? Is Shloimy getting nursing care? Can we send you anything?”

“Don’t worry. We’re getting VIP service. They even call us Waller patients.” Her voice was light and optimistic, unlike the last few times we’d spoken. “There’s no way we can ever thank you for everything,” she said emotionally.

“Good, good. Don’t thank me, I’m just the shaliach, and thanks for calling with the good news. This keeps us going.”

“Good things come from good shluchim,” she said earnestly. “Oh, and Mrs. Waller, I hope you don’t mind, but I gave your cell number to a woman I met here.”

If I received a nickel for every time someone passed on my cell number, we wouldn’t have to do a single fundraiser. “Sure, with pleasure. What does she need?”

“Similar story to ours. Her husband also had COVID and was on a ventilator for weeks. Now his kidneys aren’t functioning. The doctors are talking transplant.”

I sighed. “Don’t worry, Sima. I’ll do my best. If you need anything, call me or the office.”

My other phone was vibrating now. Now that number was a serious secret.

“Hello?” A hesitant voice. “Is this Mrs. Waller?” There was a world of confusion in that one sentence. And tears.

“Yes, it is. Can I help you with anything?” I stopped walking.

“I don’t know,” she faltered. Her voice was very young.

“It’s always good to start at the beginning.”