I'm a world-renowned heart surgeon, the one they call when all hope is lost. But I couldn't heal my own daughter. She'd been in a wheelchair for 16 years, trapped by a body I, with all my skill, had failed. Then a homeless kid walked up to her, put his hands on her legs, and whispered four words. I was about to call security. What he did next didn't just break my rules—it shattered my entire reality. The beep of the heart monitor is my church bell. The sterile blue of the OR is my sky. The rhyth