And Ethan, my son, looked exactly like the kind of patient a lazy doctor might dismiss. Both arms sleeved in tattoos. Long hair. Nose ring. He had spent years curating an appearance that older men in starched coats often interpreted as a challenge. But Ethan had never touched hard drugs in his life. He was finishing a master’s degree in environmental science. He spent his weekends volunteering at wildlife rehabilitation centers, bottle-feeding orphaned fox kits and scrubbing cages at a raptor rescue outside campus. He wrote papers on wetland restoration and carried granola bars in his backpack because he worried about other students skipping meals. He was, in ways that embarrassed him whenever I said it aloud, one of the kindest human beings I knew. The thought of some smug ER physician taking one look at him and deciding he was a liar made my grip tighten around the steering wheel so hard my knuckles hurt.