Page 51 of The Man I Hate

I turned the lock and pushed open the door. “What the fuck are you doing, Old Man?”

The living room was empty. I glanced toward the kitchen. “Where you at, Old Man?”

His Cadillac was beneath the awning when I pulled into the driveway, so I knew he hadn’t gone anywhere.

Unless someone gave him a ride.

“Old Man?!” I shouted, making my way into the hallway. “You fall asleep?”

I hoped that he didn’t get one of the men from the VFW to take him to the doctor. Short of my father, none of them could see well enough to tell a traffic signal’s color until they were in the middle of the intersection.

I pushed open his bedroom door. “You fall asleep, Old—"

My heart stopped. He was in a pile on the floor beside his unmade bed, wearing nothing but a pair of boxer shorts.

“God damn it, Hap,” I rushed across the room. “Don’t you dare die on me.”

I knelt at his side and felt for a pulse. Although it was faint, he had one. His skin was hot to the touch and pale in color.

I hoisted him over my shoulder. As I rushed toward the door, I dialed 911 on my cell phone.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“My father’s unconscious and he’s got a high fever. Where’s the closest hospital?” I huffed.

“Has he been exposed to anyone who’s tested positive—”

“Where’s the closest fucking hospital?!” I bellowed. “I haven’t got time for your bullshit.”

“Sir, I’ll need you to answer a few—”

“I’m at 648 Wichita Avenue and I’m loading him in my car now. Where’s the closest hospital?”

I opened the back door of my SUV. My phone clattered across the drive. I slid Hap onto the seat, situated him, and shut the back door.

After retrieving my phone, I got into the driver’s seat and started the engine. I pressed the navigation button on the steering wheel and spoke into the car’s interior. “Drive to the nearest hospital.”

The vehicle’s navigation system responded. “Drive to the nearest hospital, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Driving to Scripps Mercy Hospital, 4077 5th Avenue, San Diego, California. Please turn right on Wichita Avenue.”

I backed out of the driveway, shifted into gear, and stomped the gas pedal. The supercharged V-8 engine shot the SUV down the street like a rocket.

“Stay with me, Old Man,” I said, searching for his reflection in the rearview mirror. “We’ll be there before you know it. This fucker’s a lot faster than the old Cadillac of yours, that’s for sure.”

The vehicles phone rang.

I pressed the steering control and answered it. “Rourke.”

“This is the 911 operator. We were cut off.”

“I’m taking him to Scripps Mercy on 5th. Tell them I’m en route. Ten minutes. Less than ten. If someone tries to pull me over, I’m not stopping.”

“Is the person in question male or female?”

“Male.”