2The rotting smell in Trauma Room 2 was unbearable, but when I finally cut off the 8-year-old boy's filthy, neglected cast, what fell out onto the sterile floor made every seasoned ER nurse scream and step back in pure horror.

The sun rose over the hospital roof, casting golden shafts of light across the pediatric recovery wing.

Two weeks had passed since the night Leo coded on the table. The debridement surgeries had been a grueling success; Dr. Chen managed to save his arm through meticulous vascular reconstruction and a successful skin graft harvested from his thigh. While his right hand would require months of rigorous physical therapy to regain full mobility, the infection was entirely eradicated.

When I walked into his room that morning, Leo was sitting up propped against a mountain of cartoon-patterned pillows, coloring in a superhero book with his left hand.

He looked up as the door clicked open, a shy, tentative smile touching his lips.

"Good morning, Dr. Jenkins," he said softly, his voice much stronger than it had been weeks ago.

"Good morning, superhero," I smiled, walking over to check his chart and inspect the fresh white bandages on his right arm. "How are we feeling today? Any pain?"

"A little itchy," Leo admitted, holding up his coloring book. "Look. I drew you."

I took the paper from his hand. It was a crayon drawing of a woman in scrubs wearing a ridiculously large superhero cape, standing heroically next to a very muscular dog.

I let out a soft laugh, feeling a thick lump form in my throat. "Is that me?"

"Yeah," Leo nodded earnestly. "You’re the one with the cape. Because you stopped the monsters."

I pulled a chair close to the bed, sitting down and taking his hand. "Leo, I want to tell you something very important. You’re going to be leaving the hospital soon. A wonderful foster family—a family with two kids your age and a giant golden retriever—has been approved to take care of you. They have a big backyard, and nobody is ever going to lock your door again."