I wedged myself against the far wall. Made myself small.
"Pulse is steady," the paramedic said into his radio. Numbers followed. Code I didn't understand. "ETA seven minutes."
Seven minutes.
I counted Dad's breaths through the clear plastic mask. Watched fog bloom and fade with each exhale.
The ambulance lurched around a corner. Equipment rattled. Dad's hand slid sideways off his chest, and I caught it before it fell.
His fingers were cold.
"Has he been sick recently?" The paramedic didn't look up. "Any medications?"
"No. Nothing." My throat tightened. "He said he was just tired."
"When did the tremors start?"
"I don't—" I stopped. Rewound. "A few weeks. Maybe longer."
Maybe I'd just stopped noticing when they became normal.
The hospital came into view through the back windows. White concrete. Red emergency sign. People in scrubs waiting at the bay doors.
They pulled us in. Opened the doors. Swallowed us whole.
The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, sterile and unforgiving. I sat in the consultation room while Dad slept two doors down, sedated and finally still. The doctor—Dr. Chen, young enough that her voice still carried genuine concern instead of professional distance—folded her hands on the desk between us.
"It wasn't a heart attack."
Relief tried to surface. Died before reaching my throat.
"But it was a warning," she continued. Gentle. Direct. The kind of tone that suggested she'd delivered worse news before lunch. "His blood pressure spiked dangerously high. Combined with the tremors you mentioned, the confusion, the fatigue—we're looking at several interconnected issues that need immediate attention."
I nodded. Kept my hands flat on my thighs so they wouldn't shake.
"Lifestyle changes will be essential. Stress reduction. Regular monitoring." She slid a paper across the desk. Bullet points I couldn't focus on. "The good news is your father's insurance will cover this episode fully."
This episode.
"Future incidents, however…" She paused. Chose her words with visible care. "May not be covered to the same extent. Deductibles reset. Coverage limits apply after the first event. If this becomes chronic, you'll need to prepare for out-of-pocket expenses."
Numbers swam at the bottom of the page. Four figures. Five if complications arose.
"How do we prevent future incidents?" My voice sounded steadier than I felt.
"Medication. Diet modification. Reduced physical exertion and emotional stress." Dr. Chen's expression softened. "I know that's easier said than done. But your father's health depends on creating a sustainable, low-stress environment. No exceptions."
Low-stress.
In a town where the bookstore barely broke even. Where the bank called weekly. Where Dad sorted invoices he couldn't file and pretended his hands didn't tremble.
"Can I see him?"
"Of course. He'll be groggy, but awake." She stood. "We'll keep him overnight for observation. Barring complications, he can go home tomorrow."
I found Dad propped against pillows, eyes half-closed, skin paper-thin under the fluorescent wash. His gaze tracked to me when I entered.
"Told you I was fine," he mumbled. Slurred at the edges, medication softening consonants. "Fussing over nothing."
