In 2009, a three-year-old girl in Japan was dying. Her name is Rin. Her heart was failing. She needed a new one. But at that time, Japanese law didn't allow organ donation from children under fifteen. For a little girl like Rin, a heart in Japan was almost impossible. The only way was to cross the ocean. So her whole town started raising money. Bake sales. Donation boxes in every shop. Old men standing outside the train station with buckets in the winter. In four months, they raised enough. Rin's parents flew her to a children's hospital in America. And they waited. That same fall, in a small town in Wisconsin, there was a six-year-old boy named Noah. Noah loved dinosaurs. He could name forty of them. And he was the kind of kid who shared everything. His crayons. His snacks. His last Oreo. His mother, Jenny, said his teacher once wrote on his report card: "Noah gives away too much." One Saturday in October, Noah was riding his bike, and there was an accident. He didn't wake up. In a hospital hallway, at three in the morning, a doctor gently asked Jenny if she would think about organ donation. She was 34. She had been awake for two days. Her husband couldn't speak. She signed the papers. Later, she said she only thought one thing. "Noah always shared. He would want to share this too." Donors are kept anonymous. Families aren't told each other's names. But Jenny asked the transplant coordinator to pass along one message to whoever received his heart. "His name was Noah. He loved dinosaurs." Two weeks later, a little girl from Japan woke up in an American hospital with a six-year-old boy's heart beating in her chest. Every year after that, an envelope arrived at Jenny's house in Wisconsin. From Japan. No return address, just the coordinator's office. Inside was always the same thing. A drawing of a dinosaur. At four, it was a scribble. At ten, it had scales. At fifteen, it was so good Jenny framed it. Seventeen dinosaurs. Jenny kept every one. Rin is twenty now. Last summer, after years of letters, she flew to Wisconsin to meet Jenny. Jenny opened the front door. She didn't say hello. She just held Rin for a very long time. Then she asked if she could listen. She had brought a stethoscope. She put the ear tips in, very slowly, with her hands shaking. Rin unbuttoned the top of her shirt. Jenny pressed the stethoscope over Rin's heart. And for the first time in seventeen years, she heard her son's heart. She closed her eyes. "Hi, baby," she whispered. Rin cried. Jenny cried. Noah's father, who had stayed in the kitchen because he wasn't sure he could do it, came out and put his arms around both of them. Rin is studying to be a nurse now. Back in Japan, she gives talks at schools and town halls about organ donation. Japan changed its law in 2010, but there are still very few donors. So she tells people about a little boy in Wisconsin who gave away too much. She wears a tiny dinosaur pin on her collar. After every talk, young people line up to register as donors. Last year alone, more than three thousand of them. Jenny says she doesn't think of that October night as the end anymore. "The worst day of my life," she said, "was the first day of hers." Noah was six. He's still sharing.