The sound almost stopped my heart.

Gunshot.

From inside my own house.

Where Charlie was.

I knew the look of terror I saw in Sara's eyes was mirrored in my own.

"Charlie!"

I spun and ran for the house. Took the back steps in one leap, through the kitchen in three strides, up the stairs three at a time, praying all the way. A hole in the plaster, a hole in the ceiling, a hole in the wall, that I can handle. Not a hole in my son's small body.

I grabbed the doorjamb, swung into his room, my eyes taking in the scene, disbelieving, the horrified, terrifying silence, broken only by the harsh sound of my ragged breathing and Sara's sobs.

Charlie.

Lying on the floor, blood pooling underneath him. My handgun, the one I'd bought to freakin' *protect* my family, lying by his still hand.

I grabbed Sara's shoulders, shook her, ordered "Call 911. Now! Go!"

She ran.

Sinking to my knees beside my son, I gently rolled him over, felt for a pulse in his neck. Ripped off my own shirt to press against the seeping wound in his chest. He wasn't breathing. CPR. I've done CPR dozens of times, in training, in combat, but never like this, never on my own son, never praying, promising God I'd do anything if he'd only spare my son's life.

Sara was back at the door. "The EMS is on its way."

I nodded, too absorbed in my task to say anything to her. Count compressions, breathe into his mouth. Count compressions, breathe into his mouth. Feel for a pulse. Very, very faint, but there. There.

"Charlie..." Sara's sobbing voice was filled with panic as she bent down beside me, her trembling hands brushing the blonde hair off our son's forehead.

I buried my own terror and answered shakily, "He's still with us."

"Jack..."

In the distance, I could hear the sirens. Thank God. "Sara, go downstairs, show the EMTs where we are."

It seemed to take forever as I listened to the wailing sirens approach, until I heard feet on the stairs, and then the EMTs were there, pushing me aside, taking over, leaving me nothing to do but feel the hollow pounding of my own heart.

Praying.

Promising God anything and everything if only he'd spare my son.

Take me. Take me here and now. I'll lay down and die right here if the Devil needs a soul tonight. Take me, not him. Take me, not him. Take me, not him.

A policeman appeared on the stairs. "What happened?" he looked at us accusingly. "Mr. O'Neill?"

Even as my eyes were still glued to the busy hands of the rescue workers, I answered distractedly, arms wrapped around Sara's shaking shoulders. "It's my gun. I usually keep it locked in the drawer in our bedroom. Charlie was in the house alone, for just a couple minutes. Only a couple minutes. We were going to the ballgame, and I was late, ten minutes late." Christ, I was babbling and I knew it, but I had to *do* something.

"Mr. O'Neill?" the officer asked again, not unkindly..

The EMT's had Charlie loaded on a stretcher now, an oxygen mask over his face, IV's inserted into his veins. "We're ready to go," one of them told me, Mikkelson his nametag read. Funny, how that one odd fact stuck in my brain, that name I'll always remember.

Sara and I followed them down the stairs, both of us climbing into the ambulance, me riding in front with the driver, Sara in back, sitting next to Charlie. Over and over again she crooned his name and brushed the hair back off his forehead with a shaking hand, tears rolling down her cheeks.

I felt cold. I looked out the window of the ambulance and was shocked to see bright sunshine and joggers in shorts and t-shirts because I could have sworn the temperature was 20 below zero. When I looked down, I realized there was blood on my hands, his blood, Charlie's blood, my 10 year old son's blood.

Oh God.

The ride to the hospital took forever.

I'm not much for praying, but fragments of prayers I'd learned long years ago in my childhood came back to me, and I whispered every one. I begged, pleaded and bargained with God to spare my kid, not to do this to Charlie, not to do this to Sara. I didn't matter, but they did. They were my family, the people I was supposed to protect. All my life I'd been protecting people, and they're the most important people in my life, and if I've failed them... please God, if you have an ounce of mercy in your heart, don't let this happen to them.

Take me not him. Take me not him. Take me not him.

Finally, we arrived at the hospital, and they wheeled Charlie through the doors of the emergency room, and made us wait outside.

For long moments, Sara stared through the doorway after our son, unmoving.

I walked over to her, put my hand on her shoulder, trying to think of something to say, knowing there was nothing I could say but hoping I could find some words...

She didn't give me a chance. She spun toward me. "You son of a bitch! How could you be so careless? How could you! How could you!"

I reeled backwards, away from her fists pounding on my chest, retreating wordlessly until my shoulders hit the wall, and then I stood there and let her say and do whatever she wanted to, because I knew whatever she did to me wouldn't be punishment enough. I was responsible for what happened, and no word she said, no blow she delivered, could ever cut as deeply as the agony in my heart. No punishment could ever be enough for this.

------------

It seemed like hours but someone later told me it was less than 15 minutes before a doctor emerged through the door they'd taken Charlie through. His face looked grim.

"Mr. and Mrs. O'Neill?"

We jumped to our feet, nodding. I suddenly found Sara's trembling hand in mine.

"I'm Dr. Jankowski. We've taken your son up to surgery. The bullet damaged his lung and he lost a large amount of blood. We've given him transfusions and we have him stable enough to send him to the OR to repair the damage."

My mouth was so dry I could barely utter the words. "Will he be alright?"

"At this point, I can't say for certain. But the odds are very much in his favor right now."

I heard Sara sob and turned to see her knees buckling. I grabbed her, eased her to a chair, held her as she sobbed against my chest.

That's how we sat for hours.

More people came. I don't know who called them, or when they arrived. I just know that at some point during that endless night I looked up and they were there, Sara's sister and her parents; our neighbors, the Selmans; half a dozen of my Special Ops teammates; people Sara worked with. I'm sure there were more, but it was all a blur. Automatically, I answered their questions, accepted their words of concern, forgot them an instant later.

We were oblivious. Over and over in my mind I replayed the events of that day, tried to remember how and why I'd left the drawer unlocked; why I'd ever bought the gun; why I hadn't taken Charlie to that gun safety course like I'd promised we'd go to together; why I hadn't come home 10 minutes earlier. Why why why why.

----------------

I stared at the doors, willing them to open, willing them to part and reveal the smiling face of a doctor, and when it happened, I didn't even think it was real. Dr. Jankowski was back, and he was smiling. The scene unfolded like something in super slow motion.

Please, God.

Sara and I were on our feet before the door had swung closed.

"Mr. and Mrs. O'Neill..."

My heart was hammering so loudly I thought it was going to leap out of my chest.

"...your son..."

God, please. For Sara, if not for me.

"has come through the surgery..."

Sara's grip on my hand was crushing my fingers, but I didn't care.

"...and we expect him to make a complete recovery."

Sara sank weak-kneed back into the hard backed waiting room chair.

"When can we see him?" she asked.

"He's in recovery right now. We'll be moving him to the ICU shortly..."

"ICU?" I asked, worriedly.

"It's a precaution, under the circumstances, Mr. O'Neill. Once he's in a room, you can see him."

I heard Sara sob, saw her sister go to her. I turned away, bracing my arm against the wall, leaning my head on my hand, shaking with relief.

---------------------

The night passed in a blur, Sara and I taking turns every hour to go and sit with Charlie. We didn't want him waking up alone, frightened in that strange and scary place. I knew what it was like to come to in a sterile room surrounded with all kinds of strange equipment, unfamiliar people, and only half aware. I'd done it enough times myself, knew all about the disorientation and confusion. I didn't want my son to go through that. It was awful enough, what he'd gone through, what had almost happened, how close we'd come to losing him. I closed my eyes, burying my head in my hands, elbows resting on my knees.

God, Charlie, I'm sorry, so sorry, I'm sorry, son, Daddy's sorry.

How many times that night did I say those words while I waited, holding his small hand in mine, waited and waited and waited.

I'm sorry, Charlie, sorry, Daddy's sorry.

------------------------

Sara was with him when he woke up. Fitting, because she deserved to be there so much more than I did. I was in the hallway, pacing, when I heard her voice change and jumped to the doorway, peering in. His brown eyes were open, looking sleepy like they did when he was only half-awake early in the morning, his lips mouthing the word "Mom..." Sara was smiling, and trying to hug him around all the tubes and medical equipment.

Everything was going to be alright. My eyes welled up as I watched mother hugging child....