“You know somethin’ Jim,” Doc said, rolling down his window halfway, “the ladies is right. Somethin’ ain’t right ‘bout Floyd not being in the diner for a week. I sure hope we ain’t goin’ to find him holed up inside the house, windows locked tight, shotgun in hand, ready to shoot whoever decides to come in.”

Jim drove the F-100 down the highway, fishing a smoke from his pocket. “Yup. Me too. I’d hate to havta do somethin’ to him.”

“Oh, now whaddya think youns be able to do to Floyd? He’d kick your butt in a second, flat. Without a doubt, he could take you.”

Jim flicked his cigarette ashes at Doc, pointing a calloused, scarred finger at him. “Youns best be takin’ that back. Right now, ya hear?” Jim took a deep drag from his smoke, blowing it in Doc’s direction. Coughing, Doc rolled the window down the rest of the way. “You gotta do that with me in the truck, Jim?”

Jim shrugged. “My truck? My rules.” He took one last drag, throwing the half-smoked cigarette out Doc’s window.

“Watch it, you confounded fool!” Lucky for Doc, the Lucky Strike bounced off his overalls and spun out the open window, leaving a trail of sparks on the blacktop. “You coulda burned my face off, ya know that?” Doc brushed down his body once, making sure no residual ash was burning a hole in his beard or his overalls.

“Not even close,” Jim said. Putting on the right turn signal, the F-100 crawled down Floyd’s gravel drive. His truck was there, but there was no sign of life. “Huh. His truck’s here.” He pulled up next to Floyd’s truck, turning off the ignition.

Neither man moved, sitting still in the silence, hearing Jim’s truck engine knock and sputter before finally giving up. Both men’s ears were ringing, the cicadas out early for the season. For the first time in almost a century, two sets of the annoying insects were hatching at once. Their chirping sound made the most sane man feel like they were going insane. Between the silence and not knowing Floyd’s status, both men remained frozen in the front seat of Jim’s truck.

“Suppose we’d best go up and check things out, dontcha think?” Doc asked.

Jim nodded, throttling a smoke, pinching it tight enough that Doc could see his fingertips turning a whitish-pink color. Biting on the end of his Lucky Strike, Doc wondered if he would bite clean through it. He watched Jim bite it for a few seconds before pressing the lighter button on the truck. Even with the ignition off, the cigarette lighter worked. Jim took a massive drag, paused for a moment, and exhaled. “We oughten announce ourselves or somethin’. Dontcha think, Doc?”

Doc’s face lost all color, thinking about the possibility of Floyd not being alive anymore. Doc nodded.

Jim took another drag. “Whelp. Someone gotta go. Mighten as well be me, I suppose.” He grabbed the handle and ripped it open like you would rip a bandaid off a bad scrape. The squeaky door set both men’s teeth on edge, Doc cringing at the sound.

“You really oughten to do somethin’ about that door.”

Jim pointed his bony finger at Doc. “Don’t you be talkin’ about my truck like that, Doc. Yous knows better.”

Doc put his hands up in surrender, opening his door. Doc’s door creaked, but not as bad as the driver’s side door.

The front door of Floyd’s house was halfway open, as were a few of the visible windows. It was great for circulation, and, knowing Floyd, the old farmhouse needed it. “Floyd!” Jim shouted before his foot touched the first step. “You in there? It’s me and Doc. We’re coming up. Don’t shoot!”

Doc shook his head. “Jim, if’n he was gonna shoot, he’d a done it already.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

Both men climbed up the stairs, the cicadas ringing in their ears.

The front door of Floyd’s house was shut, which was not surprising. Not many guests were allowed over to his home. Other than Gary coming over, folks in Spiner could guess how many people saw his house. Doc used to come over to the farm on the regular. But after he sold most of the property to the plastics factory, he didn’t have much need for the vet. Floyd didn’t have much need for the farm either, which never set right with Doc. He wondered why he didn’t sell all the land.

Doc knocked on the front door, but not even Jim, standing as close as he was, could hear it over the sound of the insects. “He’s not home,” Doc whispered.

“Didn’t knock loud enough,” Jim hissed back. Neither man spoke above a whisper, scared of the old shotgun Floyd aimed at the bottom of the Jon Boat years earlier. Doc and Jim knew he could aim the gun just fine. But could he shoot it and hit the target? They didn’t want to find out. “Do it louder.” Jim stood right behind Doc. He figured if Floyd could pull the trigger, Doc’s girth would, at the very least, slow down the pellets from the shell. He peeked over Doc’s shoulder, waiting for him to knock again.

The big man sighed, trying to slow down his heart. He felt like he was having a heart attack, something he was warned about at his last physical. Doc’s general practitioner, Doctor Laura Reimers, told him the standard things she told other overweight patients: the effects of diabetes. The impact of heart disease, as well as what a heart attack might feel like, specifically for him. “Your chest will get tight. And you’ll feel pain in your upper body.” She made a note on his handwritten chart. Spiner still hadn’t come into the electronic age in the medical field. Dr. Reimers liked the slower pace of Spiner, having worked in offices in Chicago and Saint Louis. She considered working in a clinic in Oregon, instead choosing the small town because she was tired of the busy city lifestyle. Reading books. Listening to the crickets. Sitting next to a pond or a lake. These things were perfection. Leaving Chicago and driving a few hours, she could sit next to a lake, soak in the sun, and not worry about Maddox Jordan, the local drug-seeking alcoholic vet who came into the small clinic. Sergeant Jordan, or just Sarge or Jordy, was what the hospital called a ‘frequent flier,’ meaning he was actively seeking some narcotic substance, complaining of all kinds of ‘pain.’ Reimers helped him get into multiple treatment programs, but it always got too hard, and he came back to the clinic. Like a bad penny, Sarge had a way of turning up. Dr. Reimers also helped Doc with breathing exercises, hoping that would get him to slow down at least a little.

Doc did the breathing exercises, ignoring everything else she shared. His breakfasts, lunches, and dinners were still high in cholesterol, fat, and sugar. But on Floyd’s front porch? The not-knowing if Floyd was okay, coupled with the cicadas chirping away, increased his already high blood pressure and stress. Added was Jim clinging to his back, like a flea on a hound dog. His hands were shaking.

“Go on, Doc,” Jim whispered. “Knock again.”

Doc’s hands shook from nerves, his knock now unnerving Jim more than Doc’s driving. Jim straightened himself up and moved around Doc, convinced Floyd wasn’t home. Any average person inside that house would’ve heard the two men on the porch creaking like it was. Jim lit a smoke. “Ain’t home, Doc,” he announced, leaning on the front door. “Best go tell the ladies ain’t nothin’ going on out here.”

Doc’s hands were still shaking, his heart pounding in his chest. Sweat poured from his arms and face; his hair was soaked straight through his hat. Something wasn’t right. Doc hurt. Aches and pains radiated through his body. He started wheezing, making the same sound his niece did when she had an asthma attack. She knew him as Uncle Doc, the easiest way for her parents to explain to a four-year-old how to remember a family friend. Genny knew he wasn’t really her uncle, but it didn’t matter to her. Springtime was the worst for the girl, her seasonal asthma at its worst. He heard her wheezing like that, scared she might stop breathing. Thankfully, Genny’s grandmother was a retired nurse and knew how to give her breathing treatments. He remembered the poor girl unable to catch her breath and being scared to death for her. And now, here he was, experiencing the same thing.

Jim took two more drags off his cigarette before he noticed Doc slumping down to sit on the stairs of Floyd’s house. Jim wasn’t a doctor, but he knew something was wrong with Doc. “Doc? You okay?” Doc’s face lost all color. He fell onto his face, tumbling down the last four stairs on his stomach. He looked like someone pushed him down a waterslide. Jim tossed his smoke away from the house, rushing down and checking Doc for a pulse. It took Jim a few seconds to find it, and once he did, he knew it was slower than it should be. “Don’t you die on me, Doc!” he shouted. “Floyd?” He screamed at the closed door. “If youns in there, call 911!” All Jim could hear were the cicadas chirping louder than ever. Jim jumped up the stairs, clearing all but the last one, almost ending up next to Doc. Grabbing the door handle, he turned it, pushing it into the house.

He ran to where he expected to find the phone. Jim tried working for the phone company, a.k.a. Ma Bell, once. Ma Bell. That’s how they referred to Bell Telephone Service years ago. Outside the house was a line that ran to where the telephone line inside should be. He installed close to one hundred telephone lines outside the homes of folks around Spiner, Spud, and Hanover. Never forgot how to do it and where the lines outside ran into the house. It came in handy in an emergency. Like right now.

The telephone hung on the wall next to the refrigerator in the kitchen. Jim hoped Floyd had enough sense to pay the bill. Closing his eyes and gritting his teeth, he grabbed the receiver tight, hoping the dialtone would be there. His heart started beating again, hearing the tone. He dialed 9-1-1, waiting for an operator to pick up.

“9-1-1. What is your emergency?”

“Name’s Jim. I’m at Floyd Patterson’s, and I think Doc is havin’ a heart attack!”

“Okay, Jim. How do you know he’s having a heart attack? Did his left side go numb? Is he awake? Can he answer questions?”

“No. Doc’s out cold! We need an ambulance.”

“Okay. Go check on Doc. Don’t hang up. Paramedics are on their way to you.” Nancy worked for 9-1-1 for a few months, a recent high school graduate who wanted to attend medical school and be a doctor. Instead, she opted for a job working 9-1-1 while attending the local community college and studying general education. It was way cheaper, and she still was helping people. Plus, not many calls came through. When they did, it was an adrenaline rush, something the nineteen-year-old lived for. Excitement in small towns wasn’t an everyday thing. Once in a while, to be sure. But this gave her exactly what she needed when she needed it most.

Jim went out Floyd’s front door, looking at Doc’s slumped body. He heard the sirens but didn’t see which direction they were coming from. Jim knew the nearest ambulance service was south of Floyd’s place, a private company not connected to the hospital. The three trucks and six full-time EMTs were well-paid to wait for an emergency. The six EMTs, like Nancy, were thrilled to get a call. It didn’t matter if they answered fifteen calls or two; they got paid the same either way. Doc hadn’t moved in several minutes, but it felt like hours to Jim.

Two of the four ambulances showed up to Floyd’s homestead. Not that they needed to, but when Nancy made the call, she reminded them that Doc was the size of a football player, big. Two men may have been strong enough to safely lift him, but the company wouldn’t risk getting sued. Neither were the EMTs on duty that day. With six available technicians, four were always on duty, and two were on call.

The four men jumped out, one starting to bark orders at the other three. It sounded like barking to Jim. Giving specific instructions to the younger men, the uniformed woman did her best to engage with Jim. “Sir.” She repeated it several times, Jim’s face losing all color. “Sir. I need to come over here with me.”

“Is he dead?” Jim gulped. “Is he? You gots ta tell me. We’re friends. Wees been close friends for years. Oh, sheeshush, don’t you go and die on me, Doc!” Jim’s cries turned to tears, the first time he cried in years.

“Jim? Jim. I need you to tell me what happened.” The uniform was from the ambulance company. Like military uniforms, Washington, her last name, was embroidered above the pocket on her right breast. “Jim? Hey, I need to talk to me, Jim. I’m Maye. Maye Washington. Can you tell me what happened here?”

“Is he dead,” Jim asked Maye through his tears.

“We’re doing everything we can,” she said. Doc’s body was nonresponsive, but that wasn’t something EMTs tell friends or family members while they were on the scene. “When did you notice something was wrong?”

“Notice anything wrong?” Jim wiped away his tears. “Didn’t notice nothin’ outta the regular, ya know? He was sweatin’ a bit more than normal. But we was thinkin’ Floyd was dead.”

“Who’s we?” the EMT asked. “You and who else?” The EMTs moved the big man. Rolling him over on his back and finding no pulse, they moved in unison, starting chest compressions and CPR. Jim heard them pounding on his chest every few seconds. Maye waved her hand in his face, getting him to turn towards Maye instead of watching her partners work on Doc. “Jim, look at me. I’m over here. Your friend is in good hands.” The three EMTs continued working on Doc.

“Janice. Kathy. Them guys workin’ in the back kitchen area for Janice. Dunno their names.” Jim fished around his pocket, checking for his pack of cigarettes. Once he found them, he lit another one, taking a long drag.

“Jim, did anyone know you and Doc were headed over here?”

Jim shook his head, blowing the smoke over his head. The EMTs at the bottom of the stairs stopped working on Doc and looked at Maye. One of her partners shook his head, indicating the patient didn’t survive. All three men took a sheet and covered Doc’s body with it, being careful not to let Jim see them do it. Maye had a feeling Doc was dead from his discolored skin, but until it was confirmed, there was no way of knowing that for sure. She kept Jim from looking down the stairs, moving him to Floyd’s rocking chair, keeping his eyes off Doc’s body. That was a trick she learned from years of doing this job. Keep the survivors away from the body, especially if they are close. With Jim, it was particularly tricky.

“Jim, I’m going to need you to stay here until the Sheriff comes and takes your statement.” Her partner, a young guy, maybe thirty years old, whispered, “Got a feeling, boss. That was his first heart attack.” She turned away from Jim, looking her partner in the eye. “We don’t make calls like that, Brian. Say that all you want back at the station, but out here? Here, we do not speculate until after the coroner makes his report.” Her whisper was harsh but quiet enough that Jim couldn’t hear her. Jim buried his face in his hands and wept. Maye didn’t hear him crying, but his chest was rising and falling, no sound escaping his lips.

Maye walked back to Jim. “Jim, the medical examiner, and the Sheriff are on their way, and they will need a separate statement from you.” Jim continued smoking, even through the crying. She touched his shoulder, and he looked up at her. Jim’s eyes were beet red, smoke tendrils floating into his right eyeball, making him scrub it. “Would you like me to stay with you?” Jim nodded. “I’ll be right back, Jim. I’m not going far.” Maye descended the stairs, moving around Doc’s body.

“So, what happened, Brian?” The three men huddled close to Maye, far enough now from Jim that he couldn’t or wouldn’t overhear their conversation. “You said it was a heart attack?”

“Had to be, boss.” The other two EMTs nodded in unison. “The profuse sweating, the slight discoloration showing his breathing stopped a few minutes before we arrived. Looks like his heart gave out before he passed out and slid down the stairs.”

“Brian,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m not going to repeat it. We’re not going to jump to conclusions in this case. We’ll wait for the examiner’s report, got it?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Okay. Doesn’t look like our guy tried to kill him, so that’s a non-issue.”

“But we’re going to wait for the examiner.” Brian’s sarcasm with Maye was getting old, but she wouldn’t let her other two EMTs see her lose her cool. She’d wait to ream Brian later. Behind closed doors. Not in the field. Her first boss, Malachi Beck, did that to her multiple times. The last one cost him his job. It almost cost Beck his EMT certification also. But Brian was getting an earful – later.

“Anything else we know?”

“Other than what Nancy at 9-1-1 told us, no.”

“Okay. Start cleaning up the equipment while we wait. I’m guessing it will be a minute until the examiner and sheriff arrive.”