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It's February 2001, and just outside Philadelphia, the cars barreling down the highway,

weaving between lanes, vehicle swerves, dodging a slow-moving sedan, and when it pulls off the highway,

begins racing through a suburban neighborhood where bare trees and colonial houses line the road.

Inside the car, Ed Bish is gripping the steering wheel with all his strength.

He knows the other drivers probably think he's a madman, but he doesn't care.

Right now, all that matters is getting home as fast as possible. About 20 minutes ago,

Bish's daughter called him in a panic. She said she'd found her 18-year-old brother,

Eddie Jr., unconscious in his bedroom. His skin was pale blue, and he looked like he was dying.

Bish had been sitting at work about 10 miles away, so he told his daughter to call 911,

and ran out and hopped in the car. Bish is now only a few minutes from home,

and he's trying to reassure himself that everything is going to be okay. Eddie Jr. is young and healthy.

Whatever's happening, his son is going to get through this. But when Bish pulls up in front of the

house, his body goes slack. There are policemen blocking off the sidewalk. EMTs are racing into the

house, and an ambulance has parked out front, lighting up the entire block with flashing lights.

Bish throws the car into park and leaps out, charging across the front yard,

his feet crunching on old snow, and breath coming out in quick bursts of steam. But as he heads

to the front door, paramedic blocks his path. Hey, I'm sorry, sir. Can't let you go any further.

That's my house. My son is in there. Sir, I'm sorry to tell you this. Tell me what? Your son was

found unresponsive. Okay, where is he? What is he at the hospital? No, no, sir. The paramedics were

unable to resuscitate him. I'm sorry, your son has passed away. No, no, no, no, can't be right.

...