“Douglas!”
He was lying unconscious in his chair, his head lolling to the side, with his face flushed and lips swollen. The nearly empty glass of wine sat on his desk.
I ran to him, shoved my hands in his suit jacket pocket, and pulled out an EpiPen. He always carried them, though I’d never seen him need one. Until now.
I’d caused this.
I shoved the needle into his outer thigh, right through his fancy suit. “C’mon, Douglas. Wake up.”
Tears flooded my eyes. He’d never told me he’d react like this to nonorganic red wine. He always just said he’d itch. That his face would swell. I never realized the reaction could be this bad, that his life could be in danger.
I grabbed the phone and dialed 911. Once an ambulance was on the way, I called down to the firm’s reception desk, alerting them
