But after the line clicked dead, I sat there a long time thinking about all the patients who did not have someone to fight for them. The ones who were dismissed, ignored, stereotyped, inadequately treated, or quietly harmed because they lacked status, language, knowledge, money, or simply a parent who knew the difference between nuisance pain and an acute abdomen. Ethan had survived because I had the expertise and position to force accountability. That was not justice. That was privilege deployed in the service of justice after the fact. Real justice would be a system that protected patients before they needed a powerful advocate—one that believed suffering when it appeared in bodies the profession had been trained, overtly or not, to distrust.