John Ogburn doesn’t remember a single thing about Monday, June 26.
He doesn’t remember waking up that morning, or helping prepare breakfast for his three young children, or kissing his wife Sarabeth goodbye, or any of the meetings he had with landscape design clients. He doesn’t remember driving to the Panera Bread in Cotswold Village. He doesn’t remember going to his favorite booth in the back, where he regularly sat for hours doing work on his laptop.
He doesn’t remember crumpling to the floor at about quarter past 4, his heart gone completely, terrifyingly still.
He doesn’t remember any of the many, many things that happened next. But in the two and a half weeks since, he’s come to understand this: If a single one of those things “didn’t happen correctly,” he says, “it could have gone differently pretty quickly.”
And John Ogburn would be dead.
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