I was a pediatric surgeon. I was scheduled to perform a risky heart surgery on little Owen, six years old.

So I sat down and made one up on the spot. I told him about a brave knight with a ticking clock inside his chest who learned that courage wasn’t about being fearless—it was about being afraid and doing the hard thing anyway.

Owen listened with both hands pressed over his heart, and I wondered if he could feel the broken rhythm beneath his ribs.

The surgery went better than I’d dared to hope. His heart responded beautifully to the repair, his vitals stabilized, and by morning he should have been surrounded by relieved, exhausted parents who couldn’t stop touching him just to be sure he was real.

No mother smoothing his blankets. No father asleep in the chair. No coats, no bags—no sign anyone had been there at all. Just a stuffed dinosaur sitting crooked on the pillow and a cup of melted ice no one had bothered to throw away.

“Where are your parents, buddy?” I asked, forcing my voice to stay calm as something cold spread through my chest.

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