Desperate for help, Sara managed to step over Duncan ’s convulsing and incontinent body. A glimpse of his bloody and foaming mouth appalled and frightened her. She desperately wanted to help, but she didn’t know what to do save for calling an ambulance. With a trembling finger she punched 911 on Duncan ’s living room phone. As she impatiently waited for the connection to go through, she could hear Duncan ’s head repeatedly thump against the hardwood floor. All she could do was wince with each sickening sound and pray that help would be there soon.

Pulling her hands away from her face, Sara checked her watch. It was almost three o’clock in the morning. She’d been sitting on the same vinyl seat in the waiting room of the Manhattan General Hospital for over three hours.

For the umpteenth time she scanned the crowded room that smelled of cigarette smoke, sweat, alcohol, and wet wool. There was a large sign directly opposite her that read: NO SMOKING, but the notice was roundly ignored.

The injured mixed with those who’d accompanied them. There were wailing infants and toddlers, battered drunks, others clutching a towel to a cut finger or slashed chin. Most stared blankly ahead, inured to the endless wait. Some were obviously sick, others even in pain. One rather well dressed man had his arm around his equally well dressed female companion. Only minutes before he’d been arguing heatedly with a rather intimidatingly large triage nurse who hadn’t been ruffled by his threats to call his lawyer if his companion were not seen immediately. Resigned at last, he too stared vacantly into the middle distance.

Closing her eyes again, Sara could still feel her pulse hammering at her temples. The vivid image of Duncan convulsing on the threshold of his apartment haunted her. Whatever happened tonight, she knew she would never banish the vision from her mind.