"I edge around the wreckage and try to focus on one thing that makes sense. This: Mr. Jenkins is spread-eagled on hi lawn, in his housecoat. He's twitching. Mrs. Jenkins is kneeling over him. She rips his shirt wide open. Heart attack, I think. Mr. Jenkins has a bad heart. She's giving him CPR.
Except that's not what it is at all.
Mrs. Jenkins's determined fingers have torn past the material of Mr. Jenkins's shirt.
And now they are tearing into his chest."
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