calm himself and lifts one of her hands. The same one he held moments before. The warmth is still there. He speaks to her now. Soft words that go unheard, but he continues. Then he reaches a finger towards her neck to check her pulse. He knows how to do this from a course in emergency medicine the firm gave some years ago.

He sits beside her, staring blankly at the entrance door, seeing nothing. He has no comprehension of what has just happened, so he cries. At one point he drops his head to her chest to check for a heart-beat—uselessly. How could this have happened?  How? How? But he knows. The stupid newly finished floors. Stupid. Stupid. He stands and wipes his face with his fingers. She is dead. Who should he call?

And then the reality begins to seep in.