Not being a doctor anymore, it took Mr Vaughan a few seconds to register the cry for help. The fall, the clutching: even from where he sat in a discreet corner of the café, he could diagnose a heart attack without much chance of being mistaken. He brought the cup to his lips again, let panicked folks fumble over the man’s ribcage, bruise hand shapes into his chest. He raised his palm, the out-of-practice fingers haloed in the café’s morning light. Wouldn’t be on him, this one.
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