My family told me not to come over on New Year’s Eve because “I’d just make everyone uncomfortable,” so I spent the night alone in my apartment. But at 12:01 a.m., my brother called—his voice shaking. “What did you do? Dad just saw the news, and he’s having trouble breathing…”

I filed the patent on March 15th, 2022. Every line of code, every algorithmic iteration, was timestamped and legally mine. I didn’t plan to use it against them. I just wanted insurance.

I agreed to consult. Family obligation, my mother called it.

I drove down to the Reynolds Medical Group headquarters in Stamford, a glass monolith with our family name in brushed steel above the entrance. Lucas’s office was on the top floor, a corner suite with a view of the Sound.

“Ava!” He hugged me. It felt like a politician hugging a constituent. “Thanks for coming. This means everything.”

I explained the basic concepts of integrating AI into their legacy diagnostic devices. I was careful—I didn’t give him the core source code, but I gave him enough to build a framework. He took notes on a yellow legal pad, nodding with the enthusiasm of a man who sees a lifeline.

“This is exactly what we need,” he said. “Investors are going to love this.”

Two weeks later, he invited me to a pitch meeting with a venture capital firm from Boston. I sat in the back of the conference room, sinking into a leather chair that cost more than my car, while Lucas stood at the head of the walnut table.

He clicked a remote, and a slide appeared on the screen.

“Reynolds Medical Group: Pioneering the Future of AI Diagnostics.”

He proceeded to present my ideas. My research. My framework. He used the specific terminology I had coined in my thesis.

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