Her face was pale.
For one terrifying second, Roger believed she was dead.
Frank moved faster than anyone.
Thirty years as a firefighter had not completely left his body.
He knelt beside Beatrice.
“Don’t move her.”
Maya already had her phone out.
“Calling 911.”
Frank touched two fingers to Beatrice’s neck.
A second passed.
Then:
“Pulse.”
Roger exhaled so violently his vision blurred.
“She’s breathing.”
Frank leaned closer.
“Beatrice?”
Her eyelids moved.
A faint sound escaped her throat.
Frank looked up.
“She’s conscious.”
Barely.
Maya spoke rapidly into the phone.
Darren unlocked the building entrance remotely for paramedics.
Roger stood in the kitchen doorway.
His hands shook.
Then something warm pressed against his ankle.
Hector.
Roger had released him without noticing.
The cat sat beside his shoe.
His frantic movement had stopped.
The wildness in his blue eyes had vanished.
He simply watched Beatrice.
Roger crouched beside him.
“You knew.”
Hector looked at him.
“You knew she was here.”
One slow blink.
Roger swallowed.
The paramedics arrived eleven minutes later.
It felt like an hour.
They assessed Beatrice.
Blood pressure dangerously low.
Dehydrated.
Possible hip injury.
Head trauma.
She had apparently been on the floor for a long time.
The lead paramedic asked:
“When was she last known well?”
Darren said:
“Two days ago, maybe.”
Roger felt sick.
Two days.
Forty-one occupied apartments around her.
Elevators moving.
Doors opening.
Deliveries arriving.
Televisions playing through walls.
People living within yards of Beatrice.
Nobody knew she had fallen.
Except Hector.
As the paramedics lifted her onto a stretcher, Beatrice’s eyes opened briefly.
Her lips moved.
Roger leaned closer.
“Honey.”
The word was barely audible.
He assumed she meant something else.
Maybe medication.
Maybe a family member.
Then her eyes moved toward the doorway.
Toward Hector.
“Honey.”
The cat meowed.
Beatrice’s eyes closed again.
Roger looked down.
Something felt strange.
He would understand the next morning.
The ambulance took Beatrice to Mercy General.
Darren contacted the emergency number listed in her tenant file.
A niece in Pennsylvania.
Frank returned to his apartment.
Maya stood in the hallway for several minutes, shaken.
“I’ve lived across from her for eight months.”
Roger looked at her.
“I didn’t even know her first name.”
Roger understood.
“I’ve lived in this building twenty-three years.”
He looked toward apartment 561.
“I didn’t either.”
That admission felt heavier than expected.
Hector disappeared sometime during the confusion.
Roger looked for him.
Gone.
He returned to apartment 214.
The tuna still sat outside.
Untouched.
Roger carried it inside.
The apartment felt different.
He poured tea.
Did not drink it.
At 7:00, Susan called.
“How are you, Dad?”
Roger almost said fine.
Habit formed the word before thought.
Then he stopped.
“Something happened.”
Susan went quiet.
“What?”
Roger told her.
The cat.
The apartment.
Beatrice.
The floor.
The ambulance.
Susan listened.
When he finished, she said:
“Dad.”
“Yes?”