I am the man on Fifth Avenue.

With the passage of H.R. 1, colloquially known as the “One Big, Beautiful Bill,” I now know how I will die.

I will die because the hospitals that take care of me either won’t exist any more, or they’ll charge me so much money that I cannot afford to seek medical care.

I will die because the vaccines and medicines that protect me from diseases will either disappear or be heavily restricted, being replaced by quackery or snake oil promoted by some online TikTok influencer.

I will die because the safety nets that I paid into for most of my life will vanish, forcing me to put off retirement.

I will die because the food I purchase won’t be tested for biological pathogens like listeria or salmonella.

I will die because the tornado that rips through my neighborhood will arrive unabated because the weather forecasters were shut down, and the climate change deniers have buried their heads in the sand.

I will die because someone who has a grudge against me will call a special hotline and claim that I am an enemy of the state, or that some blog post I wrote in 2019 denigrated someone in higher power, which will cause a black SUV to arrive at my exact location and my public capture as a symbol of what happens when you speak against authority.

I will die because I stood in acceptance of my son’s right to his truth.

I will die because I stood against discrimination and bigotry.

I will die because, on this day in which we celebrate our independence … I will have lost mine.

I will die in a for-profit prison in Florida. Or in El Salvador. Or in South Sudan. Or in a location not made public to anyone.

I will die because Donald Trump once said he could shoot a man on Fifth Avenue and never be punished for it.

And apparently … that man is me.

That man is all of us.

That man was America.