Looking around the door, I saw a man sprawled face down on the floor in a Hawaiian shirt with one outstretched hand that seemed to be reaching for a small plastic funnel-like apparatus on the floor next to him. My mind registered that it was an asthma inhaler at the same time that I realized the man was totally still, his stretching hand too stiff for sleep.
Amy gasped and pushed past me to look. "It's not Dad," she said, putting her hand to her mouth. "It's Stewart Meade.
So where was the admiral?
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