Between the pancake house and the Fitness center is where he died. I walked into the scene. A desperate, frantic wife was improvising mouth-to-mouth resuscitation on her failing husband, where he lay half in the car, his feet splayed out the passenger door. He was gasping; his tongue was bulging out his mouth, and a small trickle of blood came from somewhere on his face.
She was whimpering. A firetruck pulled up from the far end of the parking lot, going painfully slow over speed bumps. The rig finally parked, air brakes sighed, firemen slowly lumbered off the truck. A silver-haired fireman came to me to consult, as if I were the voice of reason or in charge. I said I was a by-stander and pointed him to the car.