At Cedars-Sinai, the ER opened its arms the way good hospitals do—efficient, kind, paying attention. A nurse with the name tag M. RAMIREZ triaged Naomi, listened, nodded, started fluids. A social worker appeared with a clipboard and the kind of gentle questions you learn to ask in a city that has invented twenty ways to fall through a crack. “Do you have family we can call?” “Where were you sleeping last night?” “Any medical conditions we should know?”

Ethan’s assistant, Lily, called three times while he sat in the waiting area with the twins, and three times he hit decline. He texted her: Cancel everything today. And tomorrow. He added, for the first time since founding his company, Don’t reschedule yet.

He bought apple juice and two small stuffed bears from the gift shop with a credit card that had never been used for anything this small and felt unexpectedly grateful that it could be.