Anxiety lined Lydia's face as she walked into the hospital, the light gleaming on her thick, auburn hair. She kept her back straight and her pace slow, as if trying to lend strength to the figure shuffling along beside her. 

Ben trudged with her toward the elevator. Stooped, white haired and wrinkled, his frail body looked as if the breeze from a hurriedly passing nurse would blow him over.

"I wish you wouldn't do this," said Lydia as they rode up to the sixth floor.

Ben didn't reply. The elevator opened and he stepped out onto the cancer ward. Pressing her mouth into a straight line, Lydia followed him.

When they arrived at Julie's room, the skeletal twelve year-old lay in bed. Her mother, red eyed and exhausted, slumped on a chair by her side.

Sensing their presence, Julie cracked her eyelids open, revealing dark yellow whites. 

"Are you Ben?" Julie's voice was soft, almost inaudible.

Julie's mother looked up, noticing them for the first time.

"You came," she said. 

Lydia couldn't tell if the woman was hopeful or afraid.

"Yes," said Ben. He walked to the side of Julie's bed, across from her mother and looked down at the dying girl. "Do you want me to help you get better?"

"Can you?" Julie looked at Ben who swayed as if he were about to fall over. "You look worse than I do."

Ben stared down at Julie. Her bald head, an unnatural tea color, hardly made a dent on the pillow. 

"I know," he said, "but I can still help you."

"Am I your hundredth?" asked Julie.

"No," said Ben. "My ninety-eighth."

The doctors arrived then, bringing their monitors and machines. Ben waited patiently for all the wires to be hooked up. Lydia snapped at the scientists when she thought they were becoming too officious and insensitive. Julie's mother held her daughter's hand and said nothing. 

At last Ben sat in a chair, wires leading from him and Julie to the multitudes of recording machines.

"You'll have to let go now," Ben said gently, looking at Julie's mother.

Reluctantly she released her daughter's hand. Ben took them both in his own. Then the room fell quiet as the trance descended on Ben and Julie.

Lydia watched. After ninety-seven times her awe was long gone, but there was an unquestionable rightness about the event which was all that kept her from putting a stop to the never ending pleas for Ben's help.

When Julie finally opened her eyes, they seemed brighter. They were definitely less jaundiced. And was there a touch of healthy color coming back into her skin?

"I'm hungry," she said. And her mother hugged her, bursting into tears.

As the technicians removed the wires from Ben and Julie, and the doctors and scientists chattered excitedly about the phenomena they had just witnessed, using phrases like bioentropic regression and telomere regeneration, Lydia ignored them all. All she understood was that Ben was dying. That every time he helped someone else live, he grew weaker and frailer. Right now he could barely walk. 

"You have to stop this," she said, openly crying as she half carried him over to a wheelchair.

"I can't stop," said Ben. 

"I can make you stop," said Lydia.

"Would you really do that?" Ben looked deep into her eyes. 

Lydia turned away.

"No," she whispered, "but you can't kill yourself to help others."

Three days later, much against Lydia's better judgment, they were back. 

"Come in. Come in," said the woman in the chair next to the bed. 

She jumped to her feet, smiling through the lines of worry and fatigue on her face. Then clasping her hands below her chin, unaware of the frayed sleeves of her T-shirt sliding down her fragile wrists, she looked down at the small boy sleeping in the bed.

"This is my son, Zaye," she said, reaching down to stroke the few remaining wisps of black hair falling down his pale forehead.

Zaye woke at the touch, looked up and blinked.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"Zaye, this is Ben," said his mother.

"Do you want me to help you get better?" asked Ben.

"How can you help me when you are sick too?" asked Zaye.

"I don't know," said Ben. "But I can."

"Zaye is a good boy," said his mother.

Lydia gave her a tight smile. She did not want to hear how good a boy Zaye was.

Zaye gazed at Ben's wrinkled face and wispy cloud of hair.

"You look like you need help too," said Zaye. "I would help you if I could." 

"Thank you," said Ben.

The doctors and scientists arrived with their machines and wires.

Ben and Zaye clasped hands. Lydia frowned when she saw Zaye squeeze his hold tight enough to make Ben wince. But before she could say a word, they fell into the trance.

At first there was nothing to see. At first it was just like every time before. At first everything seemed normal. Then Zaye's mother screamed.

"Let go. Let go," Zaye's mother dived onto the bed, trying to pull Ben's hands away from Zaye.

But it was Zaye who wouldn't let go. Zaye's hands were clamped onto Ben's wrists, squeezing so hard that it took two of the doctors to pry his hands free while three other scientists and technicians held Zaye's mother back as she screamed and fought to reach him. Zaye lay shriveled, white haired and motionless on the bed.

Hands free, Ben straightened and stepped back. Lydia's arms wrapped around him protectively. Ben's hair had turned dark, his skin smooth and pink. He looked like what he was, a young, frightened boy.

"How could you?" Zaye's mother cried. "You were supposed to help."

"I tried," Ben said. He looked down at his smooth, unwrinkled hands. "But Zaye wanted to help too." 

Ben stood, filled with guilt, sorrow, and confusion. The two mothers held their sons. And wept.