"I hate this place anyway."

"—like an idiot, you'll—"

"And I hate you!"

No reply. I turned around, and saw him slumping backward into his black leather chair. When he hit it, the chair rotated half a turn.

"Dad!" I hurried behind the desk and shook him. "Dad!" Nothing. "Oh, Christ. Oh, no. Oh, God…" I lifted him out of the chair; there was so much adrenaline coursing through my veins from the fight that I didn't even feel his weight. Stretching out his gangly limbs on the hardwood floor, I shouted, "Dad! Come on, Dad!"

I kicked aside a waste basket with a shredder attached; paper diamonds scattered everywhere. Crouching next to him, I felt for a pulse; he still had one — and he seemed to be breathing. But he didn't respond to anything I said.

"Dad!" Totally out of ideas, I tried slapping him lightly on each cheek. A string of drool was hanging out of the corner of his mouth.

I quickly rose, turned to face his desk, hit the speakerphone button, and pounded out 9-1-1. Then I crouched down beside him again.

The phone rang three excruciating times, then: "Fire, police, or ambulance?" said a female operator, sounding small and far away.

"Ambulance!"

"Your address is—" said the operator, and she read it off. "Correct?"

I lifted his right eyelid. His eye tracked to look at mine, thank God.

"Yes, yes, that's right. Hurry! My father's collapsed!"

"Is he breathing?"

"Yes."

"Pulse?"

"Yes, he has one, but he's collapsed, and he's not responding to anything I say."

"An ambulance is on its way," said the woman. "Is anyone else with you?"

My hands were shaking. "No. I'm alone."

"Don't leave him."

"I won't. Oh, Christ, what's wrong with him?"

The operator ignored the question. "Help is on its way."