Levan Singletary’s alarm buzzed at 5:15 a.m., telling him to move the car for street sweeping.
It was dark when Singletary, who goes by “Van,” left the apartment he shares with his wife, Angela. They live in Aliso Viejo, California, near Laguna Beach. He trotted down the two flights of stairs and strode about 200 yards to the car, moved it across the street and went back upstairs.
Van was planning to sleep another hour before getting up for work. Angela was already awake but still relaxing in bed.
“Hey, isn’t this your day off?” she asked.
Van usually had Mondays off, but he told her he was scheduled to work. He also had an evening job four nights a week with the city’s parks and recreation department.
Angela said he was working too much and shouldn’t have agreed to go in.
They were both on their sides, facing the same direction. Van put his arm around her. He leaned into her, which she thought was odd given the conversation.
Then he made a raspberry sound, as if he wanted to say something. At the same time, his body jerked back.
Angela turned around.
“Van, what was that?”
No answer.
“Van? Are you OK?”
“I’m fine,” he said.
He looked normal, but his body seemed extra still.
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“Can you sit up?”
He said yes but couldn’t. He stopped at a weird angle.
“I think you’re having a stroke,” she told Van.
Angela’s father had had a stroke when he was older. It was the only thing that came to her mind, even though Van was
