MARK CHAUPPETTA: I pull up, I'm crying and I'm snorting and I'm upset, and I'm just concerned about getting to the hospital in time before I lose my son.

MICHELLE LINN: Here I am, in the middle of hundreds of people, and all I feel is incredible anxiety that I have to find this man before he kills someone.

LORENZO BERONILLA: At my doctor's appointment, he looked at me with these concerned eyes and said, "We need to admit you to the hospital immediately."

WES HAZARD: Tonight's theme is "Saving the Day."

There are as many ways to save the day as there are to find yourself in a situation and a day that needs saving.

It can be as simple as speaking up when nobody else will, or as basic as showing up to remind people that they are not alone.

The stories that you're going to hear tonight remind us all that heroes aren't just for books and movies.

They're all around us, and sometimes, they're even within us.

♪ ♪ BERONILLA: My name is Lorenzo Beronilla.

I live in the Hudson Valley.

People would recognize me as a chef on TV and on YouTube.

Did storytelling have a role in your childhood, in your upbringing, in your family at all?

Oh, goodness, storytelling is probably the key part of my family.

I was the youngest of five, so I didn't have to talk much.

All I did was listening.

So I think, through osmosis, kind of, I learned how to ba-dum-bum, you know?

(both laugh) So storytelling, to me, although I didn't realize it, became kind of second nature.

Is there a particular meal that you can remember that had a really deep resonance for you?

When you mention roast pork and it's called lechon, forget about it.

That brings back every memory that I possibly can think of-- that is Filipino picnics, gatherings, Christmases, holidays, loud jokes, dirty ones, sometimes... (both laugh) But lots of fun, family, and just a lot of joy.

I've always enjoyed cooking and traveling.

Cooking is my passion.

I love bringing joy to people through food.

Winning the show "Top Chef Amateurs," as well as being a chef on Epicurious, allowed me to share that joy with a wider audience.

Traveling has always been a big part of my life.

Tasting tapas from all over the world, immersing myself in cultures through cuisines.

It's a wonderful life.

One day in February of last year, I was away on a work trip.

I was crossing the street, and a wave of breathlessness hit me.

I felt like I was suffocating.

Was this asthma?

I hadn't had to deal with that since I was a kid.

So I reached out to my primary care physician, and he prescribed me asthma medication.

But my breathing didn't improve, in fact, it worsened.

On my way home the next day, my entire body was in pain.

I was swollen from my stomach down to my toes.

I knew something was definitely wrong, and I knew I needed to get it checked out.

At my doctor's appointment, he looked at me with these concerned eyes and said, "We need to admit you to the hospital immediately."

I was taken aback, I mean, I had things to do.

Was I that sick I needed to go to the hospital?

Reluctantly, I went.

I was fine until I hit the corridor of the hospital.

That's when I realized I couldn't take a step without breathing heavily and gasping for air.

A nurse saw me struggling and brought over a wheelchair.

And I said... (sighs) I was relieved, thinking, "I'll take some meds, I'll be out of here in the morning."

The next day, I was nauseous from the cocktail of meds pumping through my I.V.

I called out for help, and a nurse told me, "You need a echocardiogram and a catheter test..." Of some sort.

A nauseous day turned into a nauseating night.

The meds weren't working.

I overheard one of the doctors discussing my condition.

"Ejection fraction, enlarged heart, weak walls."

All I knew was, I was gravely ill.

I had gained almost 40 pounds of water weight in just a few days, and the pain was unbearable.

The decision was made to transfer me to Westchester Medical Center, a hospital that specialized in cardiovascular care.

(sighs): Days turned into a blur of tests and medication.

I learned that my heart was functioning at a capacity of 16%.

Ejection fraction.

My kidneys were failing, and I was facing possible liver problems.

Weeks passed.

Then the day came with the news that shook me to my core.

"You are not well enough to go home.

You are a good candidate for a heart transplant."

My mind went blank.

I think I was frightened and relieved at the same time.

Frightened because what I thought they were going to say was, "Make some arrangements and enjoy the rest of the time you have."

Relieved to hear I had an option.

A glimmer of hope in a dark moment.

I had to tell my family.

I got everybody on a conference call.

"Hey, guys, it's not what you think."

They had been guessing appendicitis to walking pneumonia.

"I need a heart transplant."

(whispers): Silence fell.

(softly): Followed by sniffles.

(aloud): "I'm okay with it, really."

I tried to reassure them.

(audience chuckles) I was oddly calm about the surgery ahead of me.

I remember telling my medical staff that I believed in science, and I, I trusted their medical diagnosis.

Moreso, I trusted them.

March 13, I received a balloon pump to help stabilize my heart.

I was also placed on the UNOS transplant list.

16 days later, on Good Friday, I woke up from a nap and there are two nurse practitioners standing in my room.

One of them asked me, "Hey, Mr. Baronilla, what are you going to do to, this weekend?

"Huh?

Um... "Perhaps attempt to go to the bathroom again?

(audience laughs) (whispers): What are you talking about?"

(aloud): "How about you get a new heart?"

"Wait, what?

What do you mean?"

"We found you a match.

You're going to surgery at 10:00 p.m." (laughs) Let me tell you, I was bombarded by every emotion in the book.

I think I swore to them in a couple of languages and I made some up.

(audience laughs) (chuckles): My, my heart was palpitating out of my chest.

I needed to calm down.

I needed to tell my family-- I made the call.

Chaos erupted, followed by tears and cheers.

March 30 is my new birthday.

(crying): A couple of days post-op, I was compelled to write a letter to my donor's family.

How do you write a letter saying thank you for the gift of life, and so very sorry for your loss?

(sighs): Fast-forward to today.

I'm under the careful watch from my medical team.

So far, I've had zero organ rejection.

(cheering and applauding) We are friends.

(all chuckle) I often think about my donor.

With every heartbeat, I feel more alive, more confident.

It's as if I'm walking with this forever buddy by my side.

It's funny, life is no longer maneuvered by gut feelings.

Now I simply go with my heart.

(voice trembling): I am grateful.

Not only for the gift of life, but for the legacy of love and courage you left behind.

Your selflessness inspires me to live each day fully, reminding me of the profound impact one person can have on another's life.

Thank you.

(cheering and applauding) ♪ ♪ LINN: I'm Michelle Linn, I'm from Cape Cod, Massachusetts, and for the past 30 years, I've worked in communications, helping life science and biotech companies tell their stories.

I understand that in addition to your work in communications, you also sit on the Governor's Council for Domestic Violence, Sexual Assault, and Human Trafficking.

Can you tell us a little bit about that work and what people who are not familiar with it might not know that you wish they would know?

LINN: So the role of the council is really to advise the governor and lieutenant governor on specific needs and programs to help people to either prevent sexual assault, domestic violence, and human trafficking, or to support people who are victims.

This is your first time sharing this personal story in this particular format.

What did you find to be the most challenging part of preparing for it tonight?

My story is pretty complicated, so trying to capture it in a certain time frame and for a live audience of more than one or two people is what was challenging, because in the past, I've spoken to very small audiences.

It's 1988, and I'm standing in front of my Yarmouth motel room at 11:30 p.m. with Vicki and Chris, frustrated because my friend Paul isn't there yet, and he has the only key to our room.

My friends and I had decided to kick the summer off with a weekend on Cape Cod.

I walk all the way to the office to get a key, and notice a man standing there with his back to me.

The smoke of his cigarette is curling into the night.

I try the office door, and it's locked.

And the man asks if I need help.

I tell him my problem and he nods, and then he grabs my elbow and he pulls me violently away from the door and says to me, "I want your underwear."

My screams go unanswered, and his hold on me is incredibly tight.

I'm dragged across the parking lot and thrown into a retaining wall.

Dazed and nauseous from the pain in my hip, I'm forced into a wooded area.

I try to reason with him, but he says, "Shut up-- I have a gun and will kill you."

So I just lay there, humiliated by what he's doing to me, and tell myself I will never tell anyone what happened to me.

When he's done, he tells me to get dressed except my underwear.

And he tells me he's going to take me home and keep me for a while before he kills me.

(voice trembling): My mind is racing for escape.

As he's dragging me across the street, I see a car coming my way.

So I jump in front of it, I grab onto the door handle, and he's pulling me in the other direction.

The passenger opens up the door and pulls me inside, probably concerned because I have tears and mascara all over my face, I have sticks and leaves in my hair, and my rapist runs in the other direction.

My rescuers and I see my friends in the street a little ways down the road, calling my name.

So I jump out of the car, and Vicki takes one look at me, and she gives me a giant hug, and she leads me back to our hotel room.

On the way there, she whispers to me, "Were you raped?"

And I said, "Yes," already breaking my vow to myself to tell no one.

I'm in the shower, and Paul's on the other side of the bathroom door.

He's consoling me and encouraging me to report my rape to the police.

He tells me, "If you don't report it, Michelle, "he's going to do this to someone else.

You could stop that."

He is right.

So I shut off the shower, and we head to the police station.

Yarmouth Police doesn't have a female detective, so I end up with Detective Frank Fredrickson.

I am exhausted.

My head and my hip are throbbing, and I can't make eye contact with him until he mentions that he is trained to investigate sexual assaults.

So I look up and I notice that he has really blue, really kind eyes.

And I tell him everything.

Next is the hardest part, and that's telling my family.

I know it will kill my parents.

I tell my mother first, and then she tells the others.

For weeks after, I work with Detective Fredrickson, and we meet on the Cape, at my workplace, at Boston Police headquarters, looking at hundreds of photos of potential suspects.

We look at pictures in binders, in shoeboxes, on a computer, and I begin to think I'll never see an image of my attacker.

But I'm encouraged to keep looking, because almost every week, I hear from Frank that there's another similar rape on Cape Cod.

I realize that looking at photos isn't really getting us anywhere, so I wonder if we should head out to the nightclubs where he finds his victims and look for him in person.

I am positive I will know him when I see him.

But what are the chances that out of the thousands of people on the Cape, we'll end up at the same exact place at the same exact time?

So we head out the first night to a club, and it's not easy.

I haven't been out in a while, and the loud music and flashing lights are really overwhelming.

And unfortunately, we don't find him.

I am so discouraged at this point, I'm just not sure if I can continue.

And then I get another call from Frank that there's another victim, similar rape, on Cape Cod.

And I just get angry, and I decide, "I have to stop him.

He can't keep doing this."

So we head out a second time, and first we go to the police station, and they tell me that this serial rapist is getting more and more violent with each attack.

In addition, they remind me that only one in three people report rape, so it's likely that there's a lot more victims than we even realize.

So we head to a club, and again, I'm overwhelmed, because here I am, in the middle of hundreds of people all out to have a great time, and all I feel is incredible anxiety that I have to find this man before he kills someone.

Frank suggests we head outside, and he says, "Sometimes when you're hunting, "it's better to stay in one place.

Let the prey come to you."

So we huddle on the sidewalk for a few minutes, and I notice a man standing with his back to me a little ways away, smoking a cigarette.

It is not a shiver of recognition that goes through me, it is a lightning bolt.

I am trembling from head to toe, and I whisper to Frank, "That's him."

They take the man to the police station and they arrest him.

And a few days later, when they search his home, they find my underwear, among many others'.

My rapist, John Flower, eventually pleaded guilty, but he wasn't out of my life yet.

I went to a sentencing hearing and sat with five other victims, holding hands, while I told the judge how this impacted my life.

The fear and anxiety, the paranoia, the difficulty moving on.

He was sentenced to 18 to 20 years, but to me, that wasn't nearly enough.

I tried to move on, but for years afterwards, I slept with a knife between my mattresses.

I even carried my boyfriend's gun wrapped in a plastic bag into the shower with me.

Therapy and anxiety medication helped to relieve my panic attacks, and slowly, I began to heal.

Years later, I married, found a career I really enjoyed.

I chose a husband who always made me feel safe.

But unfortunately, it didn't work out.

I did end up with two amazing children, though.

After my divorce, my therapist suggested I meet with a divorced male friend to get co-parenting advice.

No one came to mind.

And a few days later, I was watching TV and I see a police officer being interviewed.

It was Frank.

It had been 17 years since I saw him, and I remembered that he was divorced and that he always loved to talk about his kids.

So we got together and we talked about co-parenting.

We realized that in addition to the bond that we share from what we went through, um, together, we had many similar life goals and values.

And a couple years later, we got married.

(cheering and applauding) So people sometimes call Frank and I heroes, Frank for putting criminals in jail, me for working with the police to capture a serial rapist and make sure he didn't harm countless others.

I learned two important lessons from this experience, though.

The first is, sometimes, you need to be your own hero.

The second is that even the most painful experiences can turn into something beautiful.

Thank you.

(cheering and applauding) ♪ ♪ CHAUPPETTA: My name's Mark Chauppetta.

I'm from Carver, Massachusetts.

I am a licensed private investigator.

I am a father of four, stepfather of two, grandfather of two beautiful girls, and I have a beautiful wife, Janice, who supports me with all my craziness.

You clearly have a very well-developed set of skills regarding investigation.

How did you get into storytelling?

I have so many interesting cases that it's just second nature to, to tell stories.

And I've also been an advocate for a charity, so I've had the opportunity to host some comedy shows, be on stage, talk about my cause.

And I've also spoken at a lot of colleges as an investigator.

You've done stuff at colleges, you've spoken in front of crowds.

Do you feel that tonight is any different, given the context of what we're doing here?

No, I'm more nervous than I've ever been.

You know, it's easy talking about catching someone cheating or defending someone that committed a murder, but when you're talking about a loved one that's near and dear to you, well, it gets a little bit more, uh, more touchy, so we'll see.

Those that know Troy and Andrew refer to them as either the twins or the boys.

Troy, well, he was born first, which makes total sense, because he's clearly the alpha dog in the relationship, and he still is to this day.

At birth, they looked so much alike that their mom and I color-coded them.

(audience chuckles) Troy in blue and Andrew in red.

They even had blue and red wheelchairs.

The twins, they were diagnosed at a young age with Duchenne's muscular dystrophy, or DMD, as we call it, is a neuromuscular genetic disorder that typically only affects boys.

Until recently, though, most boys with DMD usually lose ambulation around 12 and weren't living much past their late teens or their early 20s.

I remember, back when the twins were around 13 years old, Andrew had woken up on this day with a cold and a low-grade fever.

Nothing to really be too concerned about.

That is, until around 11:00 that night.

Their mother called me at my house telling me that Andrew's fever had spiked to about 103, that he was unresponsive, and that E.M.S.

was on the way.

Well, I jumped out of bed, hopped in my car, broke every speed law there was to make it to Brockton Hospital on time.

When I got there, I just remember a great team of doctors working on him.

And they told us it might have been something called toxic shock syndrome?

You know, maybe it came on aggressively, some, some sort of bacterial infection.

Their mom and I, well, we hugged.

And we cried like little children.

It was like something out of a horror movie.

Well, not too long after, the doctors, you know, came to us and said, "We think Andrew needs to be med-flighted to Mass.

General Hospital in Boston."

Now, this is where the twins get their routine neuromuscular care.

Mom decided to go in the helicopter, and I decided to jump in my car and go into Boston.

I get into the car, I make my way into the city, and Troy and his big sister Elizabeth call me.

They want to know what's going on.

Now, here I am all upset, but I had to kind of keep my composure for them, to show them that I was strong.

But in the same breath, I was more concerned about Troy, because Troy is equally as compromised as his brother.

And the last thing that I needed was for him to have a panic attack and end up in the hospital himself.

I finally get up to Mass.

General Hospital, I go into the E.R.

room, and there's another team of wonderful doctors working on Andrew.

They tell me that his organs are failing him and that it doesn't look good, and that if Mom and I want to call our priest, because it doesn't look like he's going to make it through the night.

Well, Andrew, being the warrior that he is, he made it through the night and he was put on life support.

And he made it to the next day and another week later.

Now, even though he wasn't getting any worse, the damage to his organs was so bad, we didn't really know if he was going to make a complete recovery.

Troy, being the alpha dog, was blowing up my phone non-stop.

"What's going on?

I need to know-- can I come visit?

I want to see my brother."

At the time, their mom and I, we decided, "Well, we don't know if that's really a good idea at this point."

You know, it was a pretty scary situation to be in there.

Well, after about another week, and again, not really declining, but not getting any better, their mother and I, we had a conversation, and we said, "You know what?

I think it's time to bring them in."

We were hoping that it could change something, but we also thought this could be the last time they get to see their brother.

So Troy and Elizabeth came to the hospital.

Troy rolls in in his wheelchair, pulls up next to Andrew.

He's crying and he's begging and he's pleading for his brother to get better.

He's promising him everything under the sun.

"You can have my baseball card collection.

"I'll never fight with you ever again.

You can play video games first, just get better, please."

Well, the visit wasn't very long, and Troy and Elizabeth went on their way.

But what happened afterwards was just amazing.

It was a miracle.

All of a sudden, Andrew started to recover.

And we're, like, "Oh, my God."

Myself, their mother, the doctors, we're, like, "Did Troy save Andrew's life?"

And trust me, to this day, he often reminds him that he saved his life.

(all laugh) I just think, whether it was that or not, I just think Andrew had the will and the strength to survive, and it just wasn't his time to go.

Well, 12 hours later, all of a sudden, he's taken off life support.

A few more days later, he's discharged.

He goes home, and the first thing they do is start bickering and fighting.

(audience laughs) And I'm, like, "Music to my ears!"

The rest, well, it's just inspiring.

At 18 years old, they graduated high school with a degree in design and visual communications.

At 21 years old, they decided they wanted to drive, so we got them their license, and they drove a van with a joystick.

At 24 years old, they wanted to live independently, so they moved into an apartment complex with their best friend, Mark, who also has DMD.

And at 25 years old, they were selected to play for the United States of America in wheelchair soccer.

(audience cheers and applauds) Super-proud of that.

(applause continues) And did I mention?

They also adopted a dog named Bella, who is their child.

(audience laughs) So I guess the moral of the story is that, you know, we take things for granted every day, like paying a bill or driving a car or walking a dog.

But to them, that's normalcy.

You know, we use the word "ability."

We don't use the word "disability."

It's all about ability.

The twins, they're my heroes, they're their family's heroes, they're their doctors' heroes, and all their friends', and everyone that follows them on social media.

You know, they have the power of the twins, and they're right there.

(audience cheering and applauding) Thank you.

♪ ♪