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and . . . oh, Perry, his eyes—his
eyes.”
    “I’m coming for you, Mom. You stay right
there.” Perry looked at Jack. “They’re taking my father to the
hospital.”
    Jack approached, shaking his head. “You go to
the hospital. I’ll get your mom.”
    Jack tried to take the phone from Perry. He
was reluctant to release it, as if holding on to the receiver was
the same as holding his mother.
    “Go, pal,” Jack urged. “I’ll lock up and get
your mother. Go. Get out of here. And don’t drive stupid. One Sachs
man in the hospital is enough.”
    Perry Sachs, forty-year-old architect and
engineer, fought back tears as he ran for his car.

    The irony wasn’t wasted on Perry as he pulled
his black BMW 760Li sedan into the parking structure of Seattle
Medical Arts Hospital—Sachs Engineering had provided structural
consultations on the hospital and parking structure. Now the man
responsible for the work was somewhere inside the walls he helped
design.
    Perry yanked the steering wheel to the right
and pressed the gas pedal. He reminded himself that speeding
through a parking structure was unwise and illogical. He didn’t
want to be wise or logical; still, he reigned in his urge and
focused on finding a parking place. The structure was packed. In
the past Perry would find the most distant parking place, believing
that it provided him some exercise and a little extra protection
for a car he had possessed for a mere three months. This time he
took the first spot he found.
    With head down, his pace just a stride less
than a trot, Perry walked toward the hospital. The image of his
father came to mind: gray hair combed back in easy waves;
sun-browned face that wore new wrinkles well; and a mouth that
preferred smiling. Two inches shorter than Perry’s six-foot-two,
Henry Sachs was still broad in the shoulders and strong in the
back. Sixty-three years of life had bleached the color from his
hair and lined his face but had not been able to touch his spirit,
resolve, or drive.
    The parking structure gave way to an open,
planted courtyard. Trees, bushes, and flowering plants reached out
from their planters as if driven to touch each passerby. Perry knew
the hospital well, not because he had worked on it—he had been
absorbed in another project overseas—but because he came here every
year for a physical. All executives of Sachs Engineering were
required to take annual physicals paid for by the company. As the
vice president of the firm and the director of field operations,
Perry fell into that category.
    He marched through glass doors that opened as
he approached and entered the realm of the sick. The smell of
antiseptic cleansers assaulted his nose. He passed the main lobby
and turned left down a wide, pale green corridor. His sneakers
squeaked on the polished floor. Plastic engraved signs told what
lay behind each door. Perry ignored them and headed for the area
where he was certain his father would be—the emergency room.
    Uncounted steps later, he pushed through a
pair of doors and entered another waiting room. Light blue paint
dressed these walls, and pastoral landscapes hung unnoticed by a
dozen people waiting their turn to see the ER docs. Some slumped in
chairs, their eyes closed, fighting off whatever pain or discomfort
had moved them from their homes or jobs to come here. A few watched
a small television mounted high on one wall. It was Saturday, and
some home improvement show was on.
    To Perry’s right was a window with a view to
another room. The room was barely larger than a closet and seated
inside, behind the pane of glass, was a young man with a shaved
head and a patch of beard on the end of his chin. He appeared
bored. A sign above the window read: Triage Nurse. A round hole in
the glass allowed conversation between attendant and patient.
    Perry approached. “My name is Perry Sachs. My
father was brought in by ambulance.”
    The young man looked up. He had weary brown
eyes and an expressionless face. Pain