She brought his coffee. His hands trembled when he lifted the mug. Not a lot, just enough for Faith to notice. She didn't say anything, but she noticed. He kept checking his phone. Not a smartphone, something older, simpler. Every time he read a message, his jaw tightened. He'd exhale slowly, like someone trying to hold something inside that wanted to come out.
Faith came back to check on him. His grilled cheese was untouched.
"Not hungry? Or not what you expected?"
He looked up. "A little of both, I think."
"I can make you something else. No charge. It's a slow day."
"That's kind of you, but no, thank you."
She nodded and moved on. But something about him stayed with her. The way he sat there, staring at his coffee like it owed him an answer. Outside, through the window, Faith noticed something she hadn't seen before. A black Suburban with tinted windows parked at the far end of the lot, engine running, just sitting there. She looked at it for a second. Then a customer flagged her down and she forgot about it.
It was now 1:50. 10 minutes until she could leave. She untied her apron, folded it, placed it on the hook, grabbed her duffel from the back, and said goodbye to Ray.
"Good luck, Taylor. Tell your mom I said hey."
"You don't know my mom, Ray."
"Still, tell her."
Faith pushed through the front door into the afternoon sun. The heat hit her face. The parking lot shimmered. And then, she saw him 10 ft from the entrance. The old man, on the ground. One knee on the asphalt, one hand gripping a parking bollard. His leather portfolio had fallen open. Papers scattered, caught by the wind. His face was gray. His lips had turned a shade of blue that Faith recognized immediately. Because she'd seen it before. On her grandmother the year she died.
He looked up at her. His voice barely a whisper. "I'm fine. I just need a minute."
He was not fine. And Faith knew it. She dropped her duffel. She looked at her phone. 1:51 p.m. If she stopped now, even for a few minutes, the math fell apart. The bus, the flight, her mother. She didn't hesitate. Not even for a second. What happened in the next 20 minutes would cost Faith Taylor everything she'd been saving for. But it would also set something in motion. Something she never could have planned.
She ran to him, dropped to her knees on the hot asphalt, both hands under his arms.
"Sir! Sir, can you hear me?"
"I'm all right. Just lost my balance."
"No, you're not all right. Look at me. What's your name?"
"Gerald."
"Okay, Gerald. I'm Faith. I'm going to help you sit up. Tell me if anything hurts."
She braced her legs and pulled him upright, leaning his back against the parking bollard. His breathing was shallow. His skin was clammy even in the heat. His eyes were half focused, looking at her but not quite seeing her.
"Gerald, do you have any medication on you? Anything for your heart?"
He nodded weakly. His hand moved toward his jacket pocket, but couldn't make it. Faith reached in and found a small prescription bottle. She read the label. Nitroglycerin. She knew what to do. Her grandmother had the same medication, same bottle, same emergency.
"Open your mouth, under your tongue. Don't chew it."
She placed the tablet. He closed his eyes. She held his shoulders steady and counted silently: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, waiting for it to work. She pulled out her phone and dialed 911.
"911, what's your emergency?"
"I'm at Rusty's Griddle off I-85, exit 42. I have an elderly man collapsed in the parking lot, possible cardiac event. He's conscious, but his lips are blue and his breathing is shallow. He's taken nitroglycerin."
"Ma'am, we're dispatching EMS now. I need to let you know there's a multi-vehicle accident on I-85 northbound that's pulling most of our units. Estimated arrival is approximately 20 minutes."
"20 minutes?"
"Stay with him. Keep him conscious. Keep him talking."
Faith looked at Gerald. Then she looked at her phone. 2:03 p.m. 20 minutes, plus whatever came after. Her bus left at 3:00. If EMS didn't arrive before 2:40, it was over. She put the phone down. She didn't do the math again. She already knew.
She looked at her duffel bag sitting on the ground where she'd dropped it. The zipper was half open. She could see the newspaper wrapping, the gift for her mother, the heating pad she'd spent 2 weeks of skipped lunches to buy. She reached over, pulled it out, and unfolded the newspaper. She slid the heating pad behind Gerald's head, cushioning it against the metal bollard.
"What are you doing?" he said.
"Making sure you're comfortable."
"That was wrapped. That's a gift for someone."
"It was. Now it's a pillow. Don't argue with me, Gerald."
He almost laughed. It came out as a cough. She kept him talking. That was the rule. Keep him conscious. Keep him present.
"So, Gerald, where were you headed today?"
"Nowhere important anymore."
"That doesn't sound like a real answer."
He looked at her. Something shifted behind his eyes. Not pain, but something heavier. Regret, maybe. Or loneliness.
"I was driving. Just driving. Had a disagreement with some people. Needed to clear my head. Started feeling dizzy about an hour ago. Pulled off the highway and saw your diner."
"Lucky you picked this exit."
"Lucky you were still here."
Faith checked his pulse, two fingers on his wrist, counting against the seconds on her phone. Something she'd learned from a first aid pamphlet at the church back home. His pulse was weak, but steady. Better than it was 5 minutes ago.
"Do you have family, Gerald? Someone I can call?"
He was quiet for a moment. "I have a daughter."
"You want me to call her?"
"No."
"Gerald, it's complicated."