Nick Roesel, 11, "A Heart That Gave Hope"

Hope always seemed to be my greatest weakness.

Deflated balloons, stuffed animals, and cards exhibiting the phrase “get better soon” cluttered together covered in layers of dust as they sat near the window, which let in a dull misty light into the children's hospital room. It’s been 14 months since she was declared to be in a coma; everyone had already given up on my baby girl…Iris. “Jacob, look at me.” Enzo, my husband of nearly 7 years, woke me from my daze of listening to the beep of the monitor, bobbing my head in cadence to make sure there was no deviation in its rhythm. Beep, Beep, Beep.

“You need to eat something. I can stay up here while you go down to the cafeteria; I heard there’s apple pie.” There was concern in his eyes, but he smirked, anticipating that it would somehow prompt me to leave the chair that I’d sunken into for the past 9 hours. Beep, Beep, Beep. I shifted my gaze from him toward the monitor and then to Iris, to affirm that the ventilator was still breathing for her. Enzo tugged at the sleeve of my brown zip-up hoodie that I’d been wearing for the last 3 days to grasp my attention.

“Don’t touch me!” It was a contentious tone I hadn’t used since the accident; he didn’t deserve that. “I’m sorry… and you're right.” I gripped the handrail as I slowly left the room and stepped down the stairs with stiff legs into the cafeteria. There wasn’t any apple pie, but I ate anyway, and soon, felt like I could breathe again. At an even heavier pace this time, I shuffled back up the stairs into Iris’s hallway. I stopped. There were doctors rushing into the room, and my husband was bawling right outside.

2 hours passed when my husband finally found me hiding from the truth in one of the pews of the chapel struggling to breathe. “Brain death,” he whispered. Enzo didn’t say anything else except, “There's a boy with congenital heart disease 5 rooms down from us. He needs a heart, and,” he paused, “our Iris is a match.” You could see the wet residue path that his tears made on his face, but he wasn’t crying anymore. I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out, instead, I shook my head. “We should see her,” he said in response. We both escorted each other up to the room, but I couldn’t enter. In the doorway, I was still able to see the same scene I saw 3 hours ago: my daughter's eyes still shut, the ventilator still breathing for her, and the “get better soon” cards still dusty and useless. I turned my head to the left at the sound of sobbing and noticed 2 parents hugging 5 rooms down from Iris’s. I recognized the look in their eyes - hope. Slowly, I turned my head back at Enzo and nodded in approval to say our final goodbyes.

Addison Scott, 12, "North GA"

Graysen Stratton, 10, "Lifeguard Stand"