"The last flight out is in thirty minutes," said the bartender as he set Wilson's whiskey on a cocktail napkin. Wilson reached for his wallet and the bartender said, "Forget it. You're with the party, aren't you?"
"Right. Thanks," said Wilson. "Where is it going?"
"The flight?"
"Yeah?"
"Won't know 'til it gets there. Depends on 'landing conditions'."
Suddenly a bell started ringing persistently.
"Uh-oh, there's trouble!" said the bartender. "I don't smell smoke yet though."
The bell jangled relentlessly, stopping and starting.
Wilson's eyes opened wide, suddenly, dramatically. He had been dreaming a damn stupid dream. Meanwhile the telephone was insisting on an answer. Wilson groped for the phone.
"Hello?" he said slowly, blearily, softly. He wanted to make it clear with that one word that he had been asleep and that their emergency was a sacrifice on his part.
"Sorry to call at this hour, doc," said Ron Weber, but "June has just had a heart attack or something. It was really bad. She says her heart fluttered and stopped. I thought she was dying but she seems better now except she can't get her breath."
"Did she lose consciousness?"
"I'm not sure. Almost. Maybe."
"Can you check her vital signs?"
"I don't even know what that means. Can you come over here now?"
"Of course. I'm on my way." And with that Doctor Michael Wilson pulled on shorts, buttoned up a tropical shirt, slipped on his Birkies, grabbed his leather doctor bag, and headed out the door to the Jeep.
Wilson loved his Rubicon. It was ten years old but garage-kept. The red was not oxidized at all. In a world of smart cars he enjoyed sitting up high in his ragtop. Even the satellite radio still worked.
