Others such as Dora were better able to handle medical emergencies than I could so I stayed seated at my table, half in horror, half philosophical. Tess came around the table and took my hand, holding it in a strong, trembling grip. She felt more comfortable showing her emotions than I did.

Within three minutes a doctor and a nurse ran in, breathless, from the clinic, with a medical bag. The doctor took over from Dora. After a lightning fast examination of Gerald he said, “His windpipe's closed up. We'll have to do a tracheotomy. Adrenaline.”

The nurse quickly and efficiently produced a needle and a small bottle from the bag. While the doctor drew the contents of the bottle into the needle and plunged it into Gerald's arm, the nurse pulled out a scalpel and a thin plastic tube, as well as disinfectant.

At that point I stopped watching, as did most of the others. I don't watch emergency room shows on television either. The bridge players gathered in groups of two or three, talking in low voices. Soon the paramedics arrived, in uniform, with more medical bags. We overheard one of them say that Gerald's heart had stopped beating. When they brought out the paddles to attempt to restart his heart, Tess and I left the room. Not long afterward, Gerald was pronounced dead.

Some of the stunned members of the bridge club, including Tess and I, continued to loiter in the corridor of the main building, even after they took Gerald's body away, as if we had nowhere else to go, but nobody suggested that the bridge games be resumed. Even I had no interest in bridge. Wesley, the president of the bridge club and also of the residents' association, walked from one person to another, mouthing soothing words.

Other people came and went, including Carol Grant, the executive director of Silver Acres, who talked softly to the doctor from the clinic. She had a good job, but its downside was that she lost most of her customers because they died.