And the world lurches under me like it’s slipped its alignment.
My father doesnotend up on the floor.
My father doesnotlook small.
My father doesnotlook breakable.
For one disorienting heartbeat, I stand there, rooted to the doorway like I’ve been nailed in place, my lungs refusing to remember how breathing works. A cold, animal panic claws up the inside of my throat, sharp enough to make sound impossible.
Then something inside me fractures.
“Dad. Hey. Hey, look at me.” My voice comes out thin and unrecognizable, but my body is already moving. There’s a sharp sting under my foot, glass or something worse, but it barely registers, like it’s happening to someone else.
I’m on my knees beside him, my hands hovering uselessly above him like if I touch him, it’ll make this real, and I won’t be able to survive that.
I force myself to make contact.
His skin feels alarmingly off.
Too cool, too damp.
A sheen of sweat coats him, slick beneath my palms, the kind of cold sweat I have only ever associated with words likeemergency,critical,andtoo goddamn late. My fingers slide slightly against his shoulder, and the sensation sends a fresh spike of terror through me, primal and blinding.
“Dad, you need to wake up. You need to wake upright now!” The words tumble over each other, urgent and pleading at the same time, because some part of me still believes this is a misunderstanding I can talk my way out of.
His chest rises, but not right, not steady.
Each breath looks like an effort.
Each second stretches into something unbearable and cruel.
I realize, dimly, that I am shaking hard enough to rattle my teeth.
His eyes open at the sound of my voice, but they do not focus. Pain moves through his face in waves he is trying, stubbornly, to contain. His mouth shapes something that never becomes a word.
“Dad, I need you to stay with me. Do you hear me?Stay with me!” My voice sounds strange to my own ears, too steady, like it belongs to someone who is not standing in her kitchen at two in the morning watching the strongest person she knows come apart.
I fumble for my phone with hands that feel disconnected from the rest of me, as if they belong to someone else who is doing a poor job of being calm. It takes three attempts to unlock the screen. My thumb keeps missing the numbers. My breath keeps getting in the way of itself.
When the call finally connects, the voice on the other end is steady, almost impossibly so.
“911. Emergency. Which service?”
“Am-bulance,” I say, and my voice cracks on the second syllable like something breaking under pressure. “I need an ambulance. Now.”
“Okay, I’m here with you. What’s the address?”
I give it to her automatically, muscle memory taking over where my brain is failing.
“And what’s your emergency?”
“My dad,” I say, the word coming out smaller than it should be. “He collapsed. He’s on the floor. He can’t get up. He’s… he’s having trouble breathing.”
“Is he conscious?”
“Yes. Yes, he’s conscious.” I press my hand against his shoulder as if confirming it for both of us. “He’s awake. He’s just… he’s not right.”
“Is he speaking to you?”
