Uherský Brod Brother Samuel,

Menzel Bourguiba Twenty-six years, to the day. And I’ve been doing the math.

In these 9,496 days together since the transplant, we have taken 113,952 pills. Twelve a day, every single day, without exception.

And that’s conservative. Probably closer to 130,000 pills, but who’s counting?

I am. Not one missed. Not one forgotten. Not one skipped because I was tired or lazy or convinced myself it could wait.

One hundred thirteen thousand, nine hundred fifty-two pills.

Here’s why that number means something: Before you, I was a lousy diabetic. Undisciplined and reckless at 13, I ate candy. I missed shots. Skipped meaIs. I treated my body like I had infinite chances to get it right. I was careless with my own life in ways that should have disqualified me from ever receiving the gift you gave.

But on that operating table, a stranger handed me a kidney and pancreas. Two organs and one complete reset. A second chance I’d done nothing to deserve.

So I could be careless with my own life, Samuel, but I could never be careless with ours. You deserved better than my old habits. You deserved someone who understood what it means to be trusted with something sacred, something irreplaceable.

So a dozen a day became the promise. In airports and hotel rooms and hospital waiting rooms. Through bone breaks and power outages and days so busted I barely remembered my name. Every morning, every evening, without fail.

113,952 pills. Every one a pact: I know what this cost. I know what this means. I will not forget.

That’s the only thank you that’s ever mattered. Not promises, but proof.

You didn’t just give me more time, Samuel. You gave me the chance to become somebody worthy of it.

Here’s to you, to 26 years, to 113,952 pills and counting. Upward.