It was a little after eight on a Tuesday morning on an usually quiet street in Forest Hills, a few miles from Flushing Meadows Park and Shea Stadium. Maybelle, black, overweight, around fifty, was standing in front of a white two-story house.

In the house next door, Aaron Gohegan was shaving, his electric shaver almost silent. He heard the screams and, shaver in hand, moved to the bedroom window, past his wife, Jean, who, night mask over her eyes and purple plugs in her ears, snored gently.

Maybelle Rose was looking around frantically, her screaming mixed with weeping.

Aaron, currently in his undershirt and trousers and barefoot, always left for work in Manhattan at 8:15 a.m. It had been his routine for twelve years. He had a reputation for punctuality and reliability, at fifty-two the youngest vice president at Raven-son Investments.

Today, he knew, as his eyes met Maybelle's, that reputation would suffer. Aaron put on the neatly pressed white shirt he had hanging on the closet door, slipped on his socks and shoes and headed out of the bedroom and down the stairs.

Behind him, his wife was dreamily saying something he didn't understand.

Maybelle was screaming louder now, hoarse, frantic, looking around for help as Aaron stepped through his front door.

As Aaron ran across the lawn toward Maybelle, Maya Anderson, the seventy-one-year-old widow who lived across the street, also hurried toward the screaming woman.

As the two neighbors came closer they could see thick beads of sweat on Maybelle's face.

Maybelle, who weighed almost 250 pounds, sagged into the arms of Maya Anderson, who weighed slightly more than 150. Amazingly, the older woman managed to hold up the now sobbing woman until Aaron stepped in to help.

On wobbly thick legs, Maybelle, gasping for air, turned her eyes toward Aaron, a pleading look on her face.

"What happened?" asked Maya gently.

Maybelle turned her head toward the older woman and tried to speak. Nothing came out but a dry rasp and something that might have been a word.