Adam LewistonThe scent of disinfectant still clung to my skin. We had just left the pediatric ward—photographs taken, hands shaken, eyes met with quiet assurance. The press had been kept in line. No dramatics. Just measured smiles and controlled generosity. The foundation, after all, was built on hope, and hope was best served with a perfectly curated image.Now, the echo of our footsteps followed us through the sterile halls of the adult wing, where real sickness lived. Not the smiling children with shaved heads and paint-stained fingers—but the silence, the slow breathing, the grief that no campaign could soften. Here, hope wasn't a banner, but a fragile, flickering candle.James walked beside me, alert as always, his tailored suit a stark contrast to the faded scrubs of the overworked nurses. Ms. Chavez followed a pace behind, stylus in hand, eyes never straying far from her screen, meticulously documenting every interaction, every utterance for the ev
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