THE SCARS OF UVALDE

THE CHILDREN LAUGH and move in buoyant, colorful streams. They parade through the hotel lobby out into the bright morning smog, jostling and bouncing off one another. They wear Mickey Mouse ears and giddy grins of anticipation. They lead a line of parents pushing baby strollers past stuffed animals and cartoon backpacks. They fill the sidewalks, heading toward the happiest place children know.

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They are heading to Disneyland.

The doctor walks against the tide of happy children, moving through the lobby toward the convention center. The children pass around him, and as their laughter fades into the street, the doctor finds himself floating among the business attired. They amble toward the arena, the 2022 meeting of the American Academy of Pediatrics. They wear blue-and-white badges. Many carry poster tubes of research.

They gather around the arena now, where the speakers are about to begin their keynotes. The doctor makes his way to the backstage entrance. He will be the last to speak.

He is honored to speak here, and yet he would rather be anyplace else. He does not feel like the hero some say he is, and he reminds those who ask: He did not save anyone that day. There are some people back home, he knows, who do not want him to be here, giving these speeches. They want only the parents to speak. There are rumors, whispered to him in his small pediatric clinic. Rumors that some parents think him selfish. That when he gave the other speeches, a testimony before Congress, an introduction on the White House lawn before the president, he was doing it for himself. For fame.

It is absurd, he thinks. Who would ask for such a job? Who would find profit in remembering over and over again sucha horrible thing?