Mr. Packard got down next to him and rolled him over and loosened his shoelaces and his shirt. Florida's eyes looked hungry, and white foam spilled out his mouth and down over his lips and chin and his neck.
"He's taking a fit," the fat man said.
Florida was curling into himself now, his arms tight against his chest, fighting to breathe. And then he seemed to relax. That fast.
"It's a fit," the fat man said again. He hadn't looked at Florida, though. Train noticed that he hadn't looked. "I seen them do this before; sometimes they swallowed their tongue."
Mr. Packard spoke to Train like the fat man wasn't there. "Run back to the clubhouse," he said. "Tell them to call an ambulance." There was nothing hurried in the way he said it, though, and Train knew there was nothing to hurry for.
He sprinted 50 yards along the cart path, thinking of Florida, scared to death, and then kicked off his shoes and moved into the grassy fairway, running directly into the golfers behind him. There were four of them standing together on the tee, leaning against their clubs. Two of them hitched up their pants over their stomach, two underneath it.
One or two, it looked like they might be carrying a baby. Scabs on their hands and arms and faces; Train had been noticing for a while now that there was a certain age when old men begun to look like they been dragged home behind the car.
"Hey! Where you think you're going, son?"
And: "This here is a golf course, Leroy, not a racetrack...."
Some of the members called all the caddies Leroy. He headed off into the trees before any of them could yell at him too.