Her name was Laura Davidson. She was thirty-four, a pediatric oncology night nurse.

Laura didn’t offer platitudes. She didn’t tell me everything happened for a reason, or that my parents were probably just scared.

She cleaned my hand, reinserted the IV with expert precision, pulled a chair to my bed, and stayed for the rest of her shift.

Over the next month, Laura became my whole world.

When the chemo took my hair in terrifying clumps, she didn’t look away — she brought clippers, shaved the rest gently, and gave me a soft knit beanie she’d made herself.

When I couldn’t keep food down, she smuggled in lemon ice pops, the only thing I could stomach.