“From what?”
“Surgery. I’ll let the doctor know you’re here.”
“Thank you.”
I walk over to the waiting room.
“Are you Atlas?” a man asks.
“I am. You?”
“Oscar. Is he okay? They won’t tell us anything.”
“I don’t know. She said the doctor would come out soon.”
“I’m Fitz,” a dark-haired man says in greeting.
“Archer,” the third man greets. He’s a standout with bright-red curly hair.
I take a seat. “Zane told me he collapsed?”
The three men nod. “He was acting normal,” Oscar says. “Then, all of a sudden, he looked really pale and just slumped to the floor.”
“Jesus. Any recent health problems?”
“Not that we know of,” Fitz answers.
“He got really mad last week over a flamingo float in the pool,” Archer says. “He went to lie down for a little while after that.”
“You still have the flamingo problem?”
They all nod.
“Mr. Atlas?”
I hop out of my chair, turning to the doctor. “My first name is Atlas.”
“Ah. You’re Howie Winston’s family contact?”
“Yes, sir. Is he okay?”
“Yes, he’s resting. We found a severely clogged artery and put in a stent.”
“Heart attack?”
“No, just on the cusp. His blood pressure dropped significantly. We’ve got him stable now.”
“Can I see him?”
“You can.”
I motion to the guys then follow the doctor down the hall. When I step into the room, my heart drops. My vibrant, quirky uncle looks small connected to all those tubes and machines. I approach slowly, and when his eyes open, he tries to sit up but quickly settles back.
“At?” His voice is hoarse.
“Hey, Uncle. How ya feeling?”
“A little rough.”