She was blue when her neighbor found her at lunchtime, unconscious and slumped in an overstuffed leather chair.
Minutes later, her studio apartment is crammed with people in uniform who have been summoned to save her. Getting there after the 911 call had been excruciating, even with light afternoon traffic: an 11-block drive with sirens wailing, followed by a cramped ride in a slim elevator that crept slowly toward the ninth floor, as if powered by AAA batteries. The hallways in the vintage apartment building are narrow, and the doorway barely wide enough to accommodate a modern gurney.