MY RICH DAD SAID “GLORIFIED MEDIC” AT HIS $2M PARTY

shirt down the middle, buttons skittering across the floor like tiny white beetles. Pads on. Right chest. Left ribs.

The machine spoke in its calm robot voice. “Analyzing heart rhythm. Do not touch the patient.”

The room obeyed a machine faster than it had ever obeyed my father.

“Shock advised. Charging.”

“Clear,” I said.

The jolt went through him. His continue reading …