On a hot August night, a little over 40 years ago, in the quiet suburb of Toronto called Scarborough, across the street from two separate parks—one where dogs liked to run after frisbees, and another where teams of children regularly collided in screaming, kicking clumps, attempting to direct an indifferent soccer ball— less than three easy miles from the tall sandstone bluffs that look out over endless Lake Ontario, and on the third floor of a building that would grow to become Canada’s largest urban hospital (but at the time had only just been built thanks to the fundraising efforts of the Sisters of Misericord), an average sized boy was, at long last, yanked from his mother’s womb, held aloft by his feet and spanked.