Pediatrician

As Leo marched out, feeling ten feet tall, his mother lingered by the door. "Thank you, Elena," she said softly. "He’s been having nightmares about this all week."

One Tuesday afternoon, Leo, a five-year-old with a superhero cape and a very serious scowl, sat on the exam table. He was there for his kindergarten boosters, and he was ready for battle. pediatrician

Elena didn't reach for her stethoscope. Instead, she sat on her rolling stool, which squeaked just the right amount to make Leo’s eyes widen. "A force field? That’s impressive. Is it solar-powered or does it run on apple juice?" Leo paused, his scowl wavering. "Apple juice. Mostly." As Leo marched out, feeling ten feet tall,

Slowly, the arms uncrossed. Elena listened to his heart—a steady, racecar beat—and checked his "super-vision." When it came time for the shots, she didn't call them shots. She called them "software updates for his immunity-shields." He was there for his kindergarten boosters, and

A pediatrician in Flint, Michigan, who famously exposed the city's lead-tainted water crisis to protect local children.

After a personal tragedy involving his son, he successfully campaigned for mandatory back-up cameras in all new cars to prevent similar accidents.

"I have a force field, Dr. Elena," Leo informed her, crossing his arms tightly. "No pokes allowed."