 Thank you, Governor Wolfe, Senator, and all gathered here today who have fought to pass these important bills. As we discuss the opioid epidemic, two words we hear constantly now, an epidemic that is taking almost a hundred Americans a day. It's easy to think of it in abstract terms, as something that happens to other people and other families. It's easy to think, that's horrible, and then change the channel or click to another article. No one thinks it'll happen to their family until it does. You're then thrown into a club you never wanted to join, with hundreds of thousands of other families who are equally shocked, angry, and heartbroken. My name is Liz Rodrick, and I'm here with my dad, David, and my daughter, Penny, to personalize this public health emergency and put a face on the important work that we celebrate today. I'm honored to be standing here this afternoon, albeit for sad circumstances, and thank the governor and his staff for the chance to tell Clark's story. Clark Roderick was my brother. This is his picture. The opioid epidemic happened to Clark. Clark was a true Pennsylvania boy, grew up in Radner, went to Valley Forge Military Academy, went to the University of Pittsburgh. Clark loved, and I mean loved, the Steelers. He was a friend to so many. He loved animals. He had an incredible sense of humor. He had a contagious chuckle that pulled you in. He stood up for the bullied. He loved drinking tea and building fires. His 6-2 build in Loving Demeter made him a real gentle giant. When Clark was 25, he was in an accident that severely hurt his back. And so begins a tale that represents the vast majority of these tragedies. He was prescribed powerful painkillers, got hooked, and was never the same. The next six years was an endless chase for more drugs and higher highs. He was a heroin addict in less than 18 months. Our family rallied together. We attended family counseling sessions on how to best support him. My parents sent him to rehab three times. The periods of sobriety were heaven for everyone, and always gave us hope that he'd pull through and beat his demons. We let him know at every opportunity that we loved him. We did everything we could with the information that we had. Ten months ago, on December 16th, my brother texted me late at night, asking me to please call him at 6 a.m. the next morning so he wouldn't miss his shuttle to the airport. He was happy and excited to be coming home for Christmas. He was discussing the movies he was going to watch on his layover. And he wanted to know the schedule for the holidays. On December 17th, my father drove to the Philly airport to get him, and he wasn't on his flight. The nightmare started then, and within hours we all got the call. I'd always imagined where I'd be when I got the call, and I'd been preparing for it for six years. I don't really remember exactly what was said, but the landlord with the help of the police was able to break down the door, and they found my brother on the floor of his bedroom, turning it around his arm. There was melted ice cream on the nightstand. That detail always stands out to me. He died a few hours after sending me that text message and taking a lethal amount of Xanax and heroin. My 31-year-old baby brother, dead. How did we get here? How does a child from a loving home and endless, endless resolve and love at his fingertips turn to heroin? This drug and this epidemic and this disease, and it is a disease, does not discriminate. I'm here to tell you that if you haven't been personally affected by this plague, then you will be if we don't all fight back. If it can happen to Clark, it can happen to anyone. He got sick and he lost his way, and we as a society ultimately failed him because so much is still left unknown about how to address these thousands and thousands of cases. No one is safe. We need to improve our policies, our laws, our systems, and what we've seen here today is such an incredible step in the right direction. Please continue to support leaders and programs like the ones we've seen today. The statistic is that it takes 100 Americans a day. These are not junkies. These are not bad people. These are the sick friends and family members of all of us who need our help. My parents lost their son. A pain I cannot even begin to imagine. I lost my brother. He did not deserve to die, nor did he want to die. My daughter was born six weeks after Clark died and she'll never know her uncle. I brought her here today to be part of this fight so she can begin to know the dangers of addiction and of opioids. It makes me sad that she'll grow up in a world that he's not in. I'll take her to his grave and tell her his stories. He's buried in his Steelers jersey at St. Vincent's in La Trobe, a cemetery that overlooks where the Steelers hold their training camp. There's a terrible towel on his headstone, and I know he'd love that. Clark is your neighbor, your parent, your teacher, your son, your daughter, your friend. His lost battle represents so many others who followed almost identical paths. Let us learn from their lives, let us learn from their deaths, and let them mean something to the generations that follow. Thank you.