My nose is pressed to the window. The glass keeps fogging and that’s alright because this way the paramedics can’t see my tears. I’m standing on tip toes dug deep into the tan carpet. I’m watching him leave on a stretcher begging God not to take him. He sees me and smiles and with an outstretched arm, signals thumbs up like a beloved quarterback injured in the middle of a playoff game. A 70s gunslinger. Terry Bradshaw even.

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