On October 20, 2006, a heavyset fifty-three-year-old man with red hair walked through the entrance of the emergency room at the Palm Beach Gardens Hospital and approached the admissions desk. Earlier that morning, suffering from an upset stomach and sweat-inducing anxiety, he had called a fellow mechanic to tell him he’d be late to work and headed for the ER. On the way he began experiencing chest pain and shortness of breath. A big, powerful guy, he had a hawkish look, his eyes keen and watchful. But as he told the nurse his name, Jeff Markin, and described his symptoms, he looked as if he were about to become the prey of a descending terror: his eyes bulged and he began breathing more quickly through a half-opened mouth.

He fumbled out his wallet to retrieve his insurance ID card, then collapsed in a heap, his head smacking the linoleum floor. The female security guard rushed over and cradled him, praying for his life, while the nurse at the reception desk summoned emergency personnel, who came running.

I was in another part of the hospital, the operating room wing, where I had what we call a “runway” of patients prepped for angioplasties, stent insertions, heart catheterizations, intra-aortic balloon pumps, and pacemakers. Each patient had a family waiting to know the outcome and their loved one’s prognosis. So when I heard over the hospital intercom “Code blue,” which indicated a cardiopulmonary emergency, and my name being called—“Dr. Chauncey Crandall… Dr. Chauncey Crandall… Please report immediately”—I was not eager to head for the ER. As the senior