In 1994, my mother—who had a history of congested heart failure—and my father were about to drive over two hundred miles back home from Las Vegas, NV. Once in the car, my mother had a difficult time breathing, and it appeared that she would not live through the four-hour journey home. My father saw a police cruiser parked at a service station, and he stopped there to obtain help from the officer inside it. But then a Hispanic woman drove up next to him and asked him if he needed help. My father explained that my mother was experiencing congested heart failure. She told my father to follow her and she would guide him to the nearest hospital.

The woman drove through Las Vegas like she had every street memorized. She took short cuts through lots and down side streets. When they arrived at the hospital, the woman walked into the emergency room and began to give orders like she was a doctor on staff. My mother was wheeled into the emergency room, and the woman consoled her, assuring her that everything would be fine. When my father turned around to thank her, the woman was already in her car, driving away from the hospital.

My father was able to obtain the license plate on her car before she drove away. He gave the number to my brother, who was an attorney then, to investigate, so he and my mother could find out her name and address and formally thank her. My brother wrote to the State of Nevada Department of Motor Vehicles requesting the information.

They told him that no such license plate number existed.