RINGO

"Someone call an ambulance!" George shouted as he kneeled over Paul. He looked to the wings in desperation.

The audience had died down, with murmurs of shock and confusion. The sudden quiet left me with a ringing in my ears.

I jumped down from the drums and ran over to Paul. John stood frozen, ten feet away, a blank look on his face, yet with worry in his eyes. 

I turned to the wings. The ringing was louder. I saw a figure holding a phone to their ear. I couldn't hear the full conversation, but a few phrases split the ringing.

"Yes, yes, the Paul McCartney. Can you send help as soon as possible?"

"Do you have any vehicles that can go through the crowd?"

"Alright, alright, we'll carry him out the back. But please hurry! Thank you."

"Oh, god," I muttered with a sigh. These fans could keep Paul from getting help.

I kneeled down next to Paul, across from George. Paul was breathing lightly, his chest moving up and down in fragile quivers. His eyes were half-open.

"Paul?" I said, my voice slightly breaking. "Paul, help will be here soon. Alright?"

I didn't think he could hear me. I just needed to say something.

Shouts of, "Paul!" "No!" "Why?" pierced through, along with moans, from the audience.

I stayed there, with George across from me, his face sunken, and John further off, above Paul, whose breaths fluttered up, down, up down, like a small butterfly ensnared in a net, struggling to break free.

MARGO

The ringing. What was that? I looked around. No one else was there. Only me. And Paul. The gentle breeze blew our hair as we sat together. The sun shone, lighting his face. The grass was the most beautiful shade of green, the sky a perfect blue.

"I love you," Paul said, his voice like syrup.

"And I you," I returned. He smiled. His face glowed. The ringing persisted.

"What in the world is that?" I asked.

"Must be for you," Paul answered, as he began to fade away.

I opened my eyes, and sat up in my bed. The phone was ringing on the nightstand. I looked at the clock. Who could be calling this time of night?

I rubbed my eyes and picked up. 

"Hello?" My voice was drowsy from sleep.

 "Hello? Hi." Someone's voice went through urgently. Then it shouted to someone else, "Yes, I've got her. She's on the phone."

"Hello?" I said, less sleepily. "Who is this?"

"It's Mal. From the tour."

I straightened up. "Oh, yeah, okay. What's going on?"

A sigh emanated from the phone. "It's Paul."

My eyes widened. My voice remained calm. "What's Paul?"

"He's not feeling well. He collapsed on stage."

Dullness. An empty void. I was alone.

I quickly jumped out of bed. "I'm coming."

"You're- what? No, no, you don't have to-"

"Yes I do," I said, pulling on my clothes and bringing out a suitcase. "I'll be on the next flight over. What city are you in?"

"N-New York," Mal said, sounding shocked. "But I don't see why you should go, there really is no rush, he's going to be-"

"Alright," I said, stuffing the little suitcase. "I'll see you soon, then." I quickly clicked the phone down, and that's when the waterworks came.

Paul, my Paul, with a voice of syrup and eyes of angels, collapsed. Like a crumbling building.

I continued to pack my suitcase, nearly every article of clothing with a teardrop on it.