Grandpa Harold was lying on the twin mattress, curled into a fetal ball. He was wearing a thin cardigan and flannel pajama pants. No duvet. No heavy blankets. Just a thin sheet tangled around his legs. His skin was the color of old parchment, translucent and waxy. His lips were a terrifying shade of violet.

“Grandpa,” I gasped, dropping to my knees beside the bed. I ripped off my heavy marine greatcoat—wool, lined, designed for the worst weather on earth—and threw it over him.

I touched his cheek. It was like touching marble.

“Stay with me,” I commanded, my voice shaking in a way I never allowed it to in the field. “I’m getting help. Stay with me, Marine.”

He had been Army, not Marines, but he opened one eye, a slit of cloudy blue. He tried to speak, but only a dry rattle escaped.

I dialed 911 with numb fingers. “I have an elderly male, severe hypothermia, unresponsive. I need a bus, now.”