I’m sixty-two years old, four decades on a motorcycle, and I thought I’d seen every cold-hearted thing this world could cough up. I was wrong. Nothing prepared me for watching a hospital administrator tell a mother that her six-year-old, dying from cancer, had to leave because her insurance had “reached its limit.” The girl’s name was Aina. Bald from chemo, all bones and blanket, curled in her mother’s arms while the hospital lobby buzzed around her like nothing was happening. Her mother, Sarah, listened as the administrator explained why they had to go. “Ma’am, your daughter is stable enough for...
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