It's one in the morning, I'm in the ER waiting room with my wife. I have a gash in my foot from stepping on a piece of glass the size of a Dorito.
I'm only here for a tetanus shot and—God-willing—a free lollipop.
The waiting room is empty except for a white-haired lady at the desk who looks a lot like Aunt Bee. She talks like she's from a hundred years ago. Back when every child was either honey, sweetie-pie, or sugar; when women wore housecoats, put baking soda on bee stings, and fed anything that moved.
In only a few seconds, Bee manages to complete paperwork, fit me with a
plastic bracelet, and ask about my favorite baseball teams.
Through the automatic double doors walks a young couple. A girl clutching her chest.
“Oh, good heavens, what's the matter?” Aunt Bee says.
The boy can't get the words out. “M-m-my wife, she just woke up, short of breath...”
This fella is about as helpful as a pair of muddy boots. Bee turns her attention toward the girl. “Tell me what's wrong, baby.”
The girl says, “Panic... Attack...”
Bee escorts her to a seat. The girl is huffing while Bee…