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Byline: Harriet Brown
I'm driving to work on a picture-perfect summer day-blue sky, puffy clouds, Warren Zevon on the CD player-when it starts. Somewhere toward the end of "Lawyers, Guns, and Money," my heart begins to flutter, just a little, a skipped beat here and there. Soon, instead of its usual steady lub-dub, it's knocking in chaotic, syncopated bursts. The air in the car thickens, gets stuffy; I inhale deeply, trying to pull in more air, but I can't get enough. I'm suffocating, right here in my own car. Now my heart's pounding hard and fast, and my hands on the steering wheel are slick with sweat. A feeling of terror blooms in my chest, exploding into ...