A card with two footprints on it and a name and a date that is the reason I know anything at all.

Three hundred and sixty-one pages.

And a sentence in a policy manual at a health system in Wisconsin, which does not have his name on it, and which applies to about nine hundred beds, and which means that somewhere tonight, in one of those four hospitals, a person will spend ninety seconds looking at a chart that nobody would have looked at in 2021.

That is the whole inventory.