Multiple times a day, every day, Ron Davis sits with his head bowed, waiting outside his son's bedroom for a subtle signal that it's all right to come in.
He opens the door to the space where Whitney has spent most of the last decade.
Whitney lies motionless on a simple bed, his head shaved and his frame emaciated. He's fed by a tube directly into his stomach. His lips haven't uttered a word in five years.