“You were in pain tonight. Really bad pain. Everyone assumed stroke or permanent damage. Nobody looked for the real answer. They were going to make you wait 18 minutes in agony. I couldn’t—” He stopped, started again. “I couldn’t watch someone suffer when I knew how to help.” The patio was silent except for people crying. Hamilton lowered the check, his own face wet. “Then what do you want, Miles? Tell me anything.” Miles thought for a long moment. Long enough the crowd leaned in. Long enough Dana’s microphone inched closer. “I want to learn,” he finally said. “Real learning in a real school with real teachers and real textbooks that aren’t from dumpsters. I want to become a real doctor so nobody’s mom ever has to die in a waiting room saying someone please listen while nobody listens.”
Hamilton’s voice cracked completely. “You’re going to be the best doctor this city has ever seen. I promise you that.” Miles looked at him. “Does that mean you’ll help me?” Hamilton pulled out his phone. “Kid, I’m going to do a lot more than help you. I’m going to change your life starting right now.” He started making calls right there while 3 million people watched online. Thomas Reed set down his wine glass with a decisive clink. “If the kid’s such a genius, let him look at my shoulder. Two years of pain. Six different doctors. Over $18,000. Nobody can figure it out.” Miles turned. “What kind of pain?” “Constant ache. Sharp when I lift my arm, especially to the side. Wakes me up at night. Can barely reach behind my back.” Thomas stood, rotated his shoulder with visible winces. “Three doctors said rotator cuff tear. Two said arthritis. One said tendonitis. MRIs, x-rays, physical therapy, cortisone shots. Nothing helps.”
“May I examine you?” Thomas blinked, looked at Hamilton, back at Miles. “Yeah, okay. Let’s see what the 9-year-old finds.” Miles walked to the sink, washed hands again. 30 seconds. Thorough, professional. Dried them and approached Thomas. “I need to ask questions first.” “Go ahead.” “Does it hurt when you lift your arm straight forward?” “Yes. Worse the higher I go.” “What about to the side?” “Yes, much worse. Can’t get higher than shoulder level.” “Can you reach behind your back? Like tucking in a shirt?” Thomas tried. Hand barely made it to lower back. “Not really. Maybe 6 inches. Used to reach my opposite shoulder blade easy.” “Does it hurt at night when not moving?” “Yes, dull ache sometimes wakes me.” Miles nodded. “May I touch your shoulder? Check range of motion and feel muscles.” “Be my guest.”
Miles stood beside Thomas. Had to reach up. Thomas 6 feet. Miles barely four. “Lift your arm straight forward high as you can. Stop when it hurts too much.” Thomas lifted slowly. Made it to about 85° before pain stopped him. Face creased. “That’s it.” “Now to the side.” Thomas abducted his arm, reached maybe 90° before stopping with sharp breath. “Same.” Miles’s hands moved over the shoulder gently, precisely, palpating over joint, under collarbone, around shoulder blade, feeling for heat, for texture, for clues. “Your subscapularis is very tight here.” He pressed gently. Thomas flinched. “And your subacromial space is inflamed. I can feel heat, probably fluid in the bursa.” He stepped back. “You have adhesive capsulitis with subacromial bursitis.”