“I’ll give you wrk a million if you cure me.” The billionaire chuckles… until the unthinkable happens.

Around midday, sunlight streamed through the skylights of the Jefferson Memorial Rehabilitation Center in Santa Fe. The private courtyard resembled a gathering place for aristocrats rather than patients.

Linen tablecloths billowed in the warm breeze. Pitchers of imported sparkling water gleamed next to untouched glasses. The scent of sandalwood and roses permeated the air like a perfume designed to mask suffering.