Dorothy Caldwell was lying on the cold tile floor beside the refrigerator, curled slightly on her side. Her skin had turned pale gray, and her breathing was shallow and uneven. In her trembling hand she was holding an old photograph of three children standing beside a younger version of herself decades earlier.

Derrick dropped to his knees beside her.

“Mrs. Caldwell, can you hear me?”

Her eyes opened weakly.

“Derrick?” she whispered.

He grabbed his phone and called 911 immediately.

Later, doctors would explain what had happened.

Dorothy had slipped on the tile floor late Sunday evening.

The fall shattered her hip.

For nearly thirty-six hours, she had been trapped there alone, unable to reach the phone on the counter.

PART 3

Within minutes the quiet neighborhood was filled with flashing red and blue lights as an ambulance pulled into the driveway and paramedics rushed into the house carrying medical equipment. Derrick stepped aside as they carefully examined Dorothy and lifted her onto a stretcher, speaking to her gently while checking her pulse and breathing.

One of the paramedics looked at Derrick with a serious expression.

“How long has she been down?” he asked.