I work security at a children's hospital. Night shift. Quiet halls mostly.

Found a dad sleeping in his car. Parking lot. Middle of winter.

Knocked on the window. "Sir, you okay?"

He woke up. Freezing. Shaking.

"My son. ICU. Been here six weeks. Leukemia. I stay close in case..."

"Why aren't you inside?"

"They kick families out at midnight. Visiting hours. But I can't go home. What if he needs me?"

Looked at this broken father sleeping in 20-degree weather.

"Come with me."

Took him to the security office. Small room. Warm. Couch.

"Sleep here. I'll wake you if anything happens."

He started crying. "I can't—"

"You can. I'm here all night anyway."

He slept. First real sleep in weeks, he said.

Next night, same thing. And the next.

For two months, he slept on that couch. I kept watch.

His son pulled through. Remission.

The day they discharged, he found me.

"You gave me hope when I had none. Let me sleep when I couldn't go home. You saved me while doctors saved my son."

Three years later, he came back. Not as a visitor.

As an employee. Patient advocate.

"I help families navigate this place. Find resources. Support."

Showed me the family room he'd created. Couches. Coffee. Open 24/7.

"So no parent has to sleep in their car."

Sign above the door: "The Night Watchman's Room."

Named it after me.

Seventy families have used it this year.

Because sometimes security means more than locked doors.

—James, hospital security guard

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