"Belle, stop."
"—cover the medical bills. Get ahead of this before?—"
"I said stop."
His breathing changed. Short. Sharp. Too fast.
I noticed the rhythm shift. The way his chest rose and fell in quick, shallow pulls. His hand slipping from mine.
"Dad?"
He pressed his palm to his sternum. Eyes widening.
"I just need—" He swung his legs over the side of the bed. "Need to?—"
"Don't get up. Let me call the nurse?—"
But he was already moving. Already trying to stand.
His knees buckled immediately.
Weight pitching forward.
I lunged. Caught him under the arms as he went down. His shoulder slamming into my chest, momentum dragging us both toward the floor.
We hit hard.
Him first. Me half-cushioning, half-collapsing beneath his weight.
"Dad!" My voice cracked. Panic stripping it raw. "Dad, look at me?—"
His eyes rolled. Unfocused. Skin gone gray beneath that fever-flush.
I shoved out from under him. Rolled him onto his back. Hands shaking so violently I could barely press fingers to his throat.
Pulse there.
Thready.
Fast.
Too fast.
His chest still moved. Short, gasping breaths that wheezed past pale lips.
"No no no—" I fumbled for the call button. Slapped it. Slapped it again. "Stay with me. Come on. Stay with me."
His eyelids fluttered.
Lips moved without sound.
I cupped his face. Felt the tremor beneath his jaw.
"I've got you. You're okay. Help's coming."
Liar.
I didn't know if he was okay. Didn't know anything except the terrible, crushing familiarity of this. Kneeling on cold linoleum. Counting his breaths with shaking hands.
