We’re called for a domestic in an apartment complex. Minor injuries. The police are already there.

They lead a man out of the front door. He is a big muscled man, six three at least with linebacker shoulders. Except he walks with a cane and I see a brace of his left foot.

“What happened?” I ask.

“She pushed me down,” he says. “I had a stroke a year ago.”

“Did you get knocked out?”

“I hit my head. I saw stars.”

I feel his head and neck. There are no bumps or bruises. His eyes are wet.

One of the cops rolls his eyes as if to say, “that’s bullshit. Be a man.”

“You want to go to the hospital?”

“Yes,” he says.

I have my partner bring the stretcher over and we help the man on it. His huge feet hang out over the end.

He is forty-eight years old. High Blood pressure, high cholestrol and residual left sided weakness from his stroke. He hasn’t worked for a year.

He sits on the stretcher looking forward, looking nowhere.