Inertia momentarily kept him from calling Jon Mckinney and telling him that his father, Tom, had been admitted to the Millard Fillmore ICU. He attempted to envision how the conversation would play out—the words to convey he had found his dad shivering in his bed, drenched in his own urine. And that was only part of it. When Tony had returned to Tom McKinney’s room, he rushed over to get the poor man out of the bed and into a warm shower. Under the wet covers blood soaked through his tee-shirt, around his chest and abdomen. It emanated from a pair of large bite marks, perhaps inflicted by a wild animal. Tom was in bad shape, fading in and out of consciousness. Tony called 911 and then applied pressure with the soaked shirt, one hand for each wound. That’s all Tony would tell the son . . . for now. Deciding to quit torturing himself, he picked up the phone and dialed the number on his computer screen. Jon McKinney answered with a mouthful of dinner and Tony told him the news. “What the hell is biting him?
