"Stay awake." My thumb traced circles against his collarbone, meaningless movement that gave my hands purpose. "Dad. Look at me."
His lids lifted halfway. Glassy. Distant.
"You're going to be fine," I said. To him. To myself. To the empty spaces between the shelves where morning light couldn't reach. "They're almost here."
He tried to speak. Lips moved around syllables that dissolved before forming words.
I counted again. One breath. Two. Three.
This can't be happening here.
Not in the back room with the scattered paperbacks and the coffee still brewing and the invoices he'd abandoned mid-sort. Not where customers would walk in any minute expecting normal—shelves and recommendations and the quiet hum of a place that sold stories instead of living them.
Not in front of strangers.
Blood caught my eye. Dark smear on the corner of the display stand where his temple must have grazed it. Small amount. Nothing serious. But it gleamed wet under the fluorescent lights, stark against pale wood.
I'd clean that later.
After the ambulance. After explanations. After whatever came next that I couldn't let myself imagine yet.
I always cleaned later.
"Dad." His name again because silence felt worse. "Stay with me. Just a little longer."
His hand found mine. Squeezed once.
Then went slack.
"Ma’am?" The dispatcher's voice sharpened. "What's happening?"
"He's—" I pressed harder against his chest. Still rising. Still falling. "He's breathing. Eyes closed. Not responding."
"The ambulance is pulling up now."
I heard it. Sirens cutting through the morning quiet, growing louder until they stopped right outside. Doors slamming. Footsteps on pavement.
The bell above the shop door chimed.
Two paramedics moved past the fiction wall, past the counter, past everything I'd built to keep the world at arm's length.
They knelt beside us. Asked questions.
I answered.
Dad's hand stayed limp in mine.
They lifted him onto the gurney with practiced efficiency. Straps across his chest, his legs. Dad's eyes opened briefly when they locked the wheels into place, confusion flickering across his face before fading back to blankness.
"I'm coming with you," I said.
Not a question.
The shorter paramedic nodded toward the ambulance. "In the back. Stay out of the way."
I grabbed my purse. Locked the register by reflex. The door handle felt foreign under my palm when I pulled it shut behind us—like I was closing something that wouldn't open the same way again.
The ambulance smelled like antiseptic and something underneath it I couldn't name. Chemical warmth. Old fear. The taller paramedic worked over Dad, checking vitals, adjusting the oxygen mask they'd fitted over his nose and mouth.
