JASON’S RIGHT ARM took a long time to heal, but longer to rebuild the muscles he needed to hold a paintbrush for a few minutes without trembling. His frustration with his inability to grip a pencil or a paintbrush long enough to maintain complete control on paper and canvas was unmistakable. I had been around enough disabled patients to know that the last thing they needed to hear from me was that I was available for help if they needed. They didn’t want to be reminded that they were helpless. Still, watching my son trying to paint nearly killed me. I was so wound up with worry that I couldn’t sleep for a few nights.
ONE EVENING JASON suddenly disappeared. I called the police, and two policemen—Sam Crowe and Steve Penn—appeared on my front porch. Luckily it was a slow night for them, and
