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“Dad, can you hear me?”

Nothing.

“Ma’am, do you know if he’s breathing?”

“I don’t know. How am I supposed to... I don’t know. I touched him and he’s cold. He’s really cold. Just please send somebody.”

“They’re already on the way.”

“Can I get him down? Should I... what am I supposed to do?”

The dispatcher continued speaking, trying to keep me focused while help was coming, but I couldn’t hold on to everything she was saying. My thoughts kept slipping away from me.

Then I saw the bag of food lying in the hallway. For some reason, that was what finally broke me.

I’d brought his lunch. I’d stood in line waiting for his food and spent the drive over rehearsing my apology. I’d imagined him still being irritated when I showed up. I had pictured myself putting the bag on the table and telling him he could either forgive me or eat by himself. Eventually one of us would laugh, and that would be the end of it because it was Sunday and Sundays were ours.

“I brought you lunch.” My voice cracked. “Dad, look. I brought your food. Your favorite, remember? I came over so we could...”

I couldn’t finish. My chest tightened until every breath hurt.

“We’re supposed to have lunch. It’s Sunday. We always... Dad, it’s Sunday.”

I stared at him, waiting for something I already knew wasn’t coming, and suddenly I was back at the restaurant a week earlier. I could hear the anger in both our voices and see myself walking away from the table because I’d been too upset to stay.

“I didn’t mean it. I didn’t... I was mad. That’s all.”

My voice climbed as the panic took over again. The truth sitting in front of me made another sob tear out of my chest.

“No. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I should’ve called you. I should’ve called first. Oh my God.”

I covered my mouth.

“Yesterday. I called you yesterday. Were you...”

I couldn’t say it. I couldn’t ask if he’d already been dead.

The dispatcher said my name, but I barely heard her.

Sirens sounded somewhere outside, growing louder as they approached the house. I was crying so hard now that I could barely see him.

“I’m sorry, Dad. I’m so sorry. Please don’t...”

The rest caught in my throat. I pressed a fist against my mouth, trying to breathe.

“I can’t do this again.”

My mother flashed through my mind, and suddenly I wasn’t twenty-two anymore. I was eight years old and being told that Mom wasn’t coming home.

“No. No, you can’t... Dad, please. Mom’s gone...” I shook my head violently. “You can’t leave me too. Please don’t leave me too.”

My voice disappeared beneath another sob.

“I need you.”

The sirens grew louder until they seemed to fill the entire house. I heard the front door open, followed by voices and footsteps coming toward the study, but I couldn’t make myself move from where I sat on the floor.

“In here!”