Eric grabbed his phone, hands shaking violently, panic overriding years of emotional suppression. “Mel, she’s having a heart attack! We have to stop this!”

“Put the phone down, Eric,” I said.

I didn’t run. I didn’t scream. I walked over to Patricia, who was performing an Oscar-worthy rendition of a dying swan, eyes squeezed shut, taking fast, shallow, theatrical breaths.

“Mel, she’s dying!” Eric yelled, tears springing to his eyes.

“I’ve been an ER nurse for fourteen years, Eric,” I said smoothly. “I know what a myocardial infarction looks like. I know what an anxiety attack looks like.

And I know what bad acting looks like.”