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Last month, I took my 8-year-old daughter to the emergency room after she fell off her bike and scraped her knee pretty badly. The wound was deep and bleeding, so I wanted to make sure it didn't need stitches. We waited three hours in the waiting room, watching other patients come and go.

Finally, a nurse called us back to a small examination room. She took one look at my daughter's knee, grabbed a bottle of saline solution, and poured it over the scrape for maybe ten seconds. Then she dabbed it with a paper towel, slapped a regular Band-Aid on it, and said, "You're all set. Keep it clean and dry."

The whole interaction lasted less than two minutes. No doctor ever saw us. No stitches, no prescription, no follow-up instructions. Just saline water and a Band-Aid that probably cost them twelve cents. My daughter was brave through the whole thing, and I was relieved it wasn't serious.

Two weeks later, I got a bill in the mail that made my jaw drop. They charged me $847 for "emergency wound care and treatment." Eight hundred and forty-seven dollars for saline water and a Band-Aid. I called the billing department immediately, thinking it had to be a mistake.

"No mistake," the billing specialist told me coldly. "Your daughter received emergency medical treatment. The charge covers facility usage, medical supplies, and professional nursing care." I explained that a nurse poured water on a scrape and put on a Band-Aid. "That's still medical treatment, sir. The bill stands."

I asked to speak to a supervisor. Same story. I asked for an itemized breakdown. They sent me a list that included "$340 for emergency facility fee," "$285 for wound irrigation procedure," "$156 for sterile dressing application," and "$66 for medical waste disposal." Medical waste disposal for one Band-Aid wrapper.

I was furious, but then I had an idea. I researched the exact supplies they used and their wholesale costs. Then I drafted my own invoice and mailed it to the hospital's billing department.

My bill charged them $847 for "Parental Emergency Response Services." I itemized everything: "$340 for immediate crisis assessment and triage decision-making," "$285 for patient transport and logistics coordination," "$156 for emotional support and comfort care during treatment," and "$66 for post-treatment monitoring and care instructions compliance."

I included a note explaining that since they considered pouring water on a scrape worth $847, my three hours of actual emergency response work - assessing the injury, driving to the hospital, waiting, comforting my scared daughter, and ensuring proper follow-up care - was worth exactly the same amount.

The hospital's legal department called within a week. The lawyer sounded annoyed. "Mr. Johnson, you can't bill a hospital for bringing your child in for treatment. This is ridiculous."

I replied calmly, "You're absolutely right. It is ridiculous to charge someone $847 for ten seconds of saline water and a Band-Aid. But if you insist that minimal effort deserves maximum payment, then my three hours of actual emergency care work is worth every penny of that $847."

"This is absurd," he said. "We'll see you in court if necessary."

"Perfect," I told him. "I'll bring photos of the Band-Aid, the saline bottle, and my daughter's medical records showing no doctor ever examined her. You can explain to a judge why water and a twelve-cent bandage costs more than most people's rent. I'll also bring receipts showing I can buy the exact same supplies at CVS for under five dollars."

Three days later, they called back. "We're prepared to reduce your bill significantly as a goodwill gesture," the lawyer said. I could hear the defeat in his voice.

"There's nothing to reduce," I replied. "Drop your bill entirely, and I'll drop mine. Otherwise, we'll let a jury decide if your saline water is really worth $847."

The next week, I received a letter stating my account had been "adjusted to zero balance due to administrative review." My invoice was never mentioned again.