Then there was Leo. Eleven years old. An inoperable brain tumor wrapped around his brainstem like a python. The prognosis was weeks. His parents had already picked out a coffin.

"My son," she whispered. "He died in 1993. Before you lost yours. Before you became… this."

Leo’s eyes flicked to a spot on his own head, just behind the left ear.

And this was where you found Dr. Marko Nurko.

He still works. Every day. He says he’s not a saint. He’s just the one who stayed.