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the Old Man mouth-to-mouth and CPR, she had smiled and murmured, “You saved his life.”
    Leonard, on the other hand, was unusually quiet. As the time dragged on and still no word came from the doctors, he became restless, crossing and uncrossing his legs, then tapping his fingers. Finally, he signaled to Richard with a toss of his head. He got up, went a short way down a connecting corridor, and paused to let Richard catch up.
    “What were you thinking of?” Leonard asked in a fierce whisper.
    “What do you mean?” Richard asked, surprised.
    “Giving him CPR like that.”
    “Dad was dying.”
    “So?”
    Richard shook his head, not understanding. What was he supposed to do? They gave everyone the training so that, when the time came, they could all save lives. It was what they expected of you. “I still don’t know what you mean,” he said.
    “People die. It’s natural. It was his time.”
    “You wanted him to die?” Richard asked.
    “No … no, of course not. But, after all, he’s not that young. How much longer could he expect to live? And it was the perfect opportunity for him—doing something he loved, on a beautiful spring day, no pain, no lingering. He probably didn’t even know what hit him.”
    “But I could save him. The doctors can—”
    “Come on! You heard what they said. Massive heart attack. Irreversible tissue damage. Possible brain damage. Yes, he could live, but what kind of life? He’ll be an invalid, maybe a vegetable, still dying, just more slowly.”
    “But these days, with transplants—”
    “Get real, will you? There are waiting lists, criteria, priorities. Who would assign a fresh, young heart to a man his age?”
    “I guess I didn’t think about that,” Richard said.
    “I know, and it’s just too bad you didn’t.”
    “Well, would you have let him die?”
    Leonard’s eyes went opaque.
    “In hindsight … yes.”
    * * *
    Whirrr-Click! … Whirrr-Click! … Whirr-Click! …
    John Praxis came awake slowly to the sound. With each whirr, he felt growing pressure in his chest. With each click, a little thud and release of the pressure. Over and over again. He still felt pain in there, but it was an ache, a throbbing, like the remembered pain after the dentist had drilled a tooth. Not the deep, cutting pain that went along with the Thunderbolt. This was pain he could handle.
    He opened his eyes to the muted wash of fluorescents shielded inside tiny egg crates against blue-white ceiling tiles. He breathed in through his nose and caught the scents of a hospital—fresh vinyl rubbed down with mouthwash. So this wasn’t the morgue. So he was awake and not dreaming. Or not mostly dreaming.
    “How are we doing?” asked a female voice from somewhere above his head.
    Praxis thought about this for a long time. “Not dead yet, I gather.”
    “That’s the spirit! But you should go back to sleep now.”
    “What happened to me? Why do I feel this—?”
    “Sleep now. You’ll get answers later.”
    The next time he awoke, the ceiling was different and someone had raised the head of his bed slightly, so he could also see a fair amount of the opposite wall, with a television set mounted high in the corner—its screen dark now. The whirr and click were still taking place inside his chest. He moved his head to one side and saw a familiar face.
    “Hello, Dad.” Callista Praxis, who was sitting close to the edge of his bed, put down her magazine and reached for his hand.
    He tried to reach for hers and felt a restraining cuff. “What the—?”
    “It’s to keep you from moving around. Please don’t struggle.”
    “What happened …?”
    “You had a heart attack.”
    “How …?” Wait, he already knew the answer to that one—walking uphill on the damned golf course. He changed direction to ask, “How bad?”
    “Pretty massive.” Callie never could tell a lie. “But they say you’ll be all right.”
    “Adele …?” He turned his head to look around.
    “Mom sat here