I carried my elderly neighbor down nine flights of stairs during a fire, and two days later, a man showed up at my door and said, “You did it on purpose. You’re a disgrace.” I’m 36, a single dad to my 12-year-old son, Nick. It’s just been the two of us since his mom died three years ago. Some days feel quiet in the small apartment on the ninth floor, too quiet without her. Pipes groan, the elevator moans, and the hallway always smells faintly like burnt toast. Next door

The afternoon sun poured over Charleston like a lie dressed in gold, beautiful and warm, yet hiding something bitter beneath its glow. From the second-floor balcony of the Montgomery house, Samuel Montgomery stood perfectly still, his hands resting on the cool stone railing. Below him, the garden he had once designed with such care spread out in perfect, orderly lines. The hedges were trimmed just right. The white roses bloomed bright and proud. Marble paths gleamed, untouched by dirt or fallen leaves. Everything looked perfect. And yet, everything was wrong.

I have spent my whole life repairing broken hearts, but the first heart that truly changed my life belonged to a six-year-old boy named Owen. I was a pediatric surgeon then, exhausted, focused, and convinced I had already seen every kind of tragedy a hospital could offer. I was wrong. Owen came into my life on a gray morning, wheeled into the cardiac unit on a bed that looked far too big for his tiny body. He was six years old, all elbows and knees, with eyes that were too