"You did a good job," Nell assures me as she lifts the blood-soaked dressings and assesses Heath's wound. "You got the bleeding under control , that's what counts. That is a nasty wound," she grimaces. "Right down to the muscle, but it's a very clean cut it will stitch up nice." Her demeanor is clam and her assessment is clinical, her comments make me feel marginally better, but more importantly Heath is now in the care of a former medical professional, someone far more skilled in the business of broken bodies than I will ever be.

Nell retired from being a nurse practitioner over a decade ago, but some things just come back to you regardless of how long you've been away. Like the idiom about riding a bike, I suppose.

She spent the majority of her forty-year career as the sole healthcare provider on the island. She's dealt with broken bones, gunshot wounds and plenty of lacerations so the current patient is in good hands. I just wish it wasn't my little boy.

Outside a generator sputters to life; there's a circus of commotion inside the room where Heath is splayed out on a large oak harvest table as people fumble about trying to help. I see shadowy faces lit by the sparse light of candles and flashlights, that are only vaguely familiar, others people from the neighbourhood who have come to help in any way they can. But my sole focus is on Heath and my brain is a buzzing hive of chaos, I can only seem to process about a third of what is going on.

I notice someone prying away at my fingers; I have Heath's hand clamped in my fist. "You have to let go so we can work," a young man wearing a headlamp advises. With the light in my face I can scarcely make out any details of his face. His voice is smooth and steady, as calming as it is assertive.

"Okay," I say absentmindedly and release Heath's hand from my grip. My arm drops limply to my side. I have no idea what to do with myself at this point. I feel utterly helpless.

Two men bump past me and setup a task lighting apparatus next to the table, suddenly the room is awash in stark white light that overpowers the headlamps and flashlights that we were using. Now every vivid detail of the scene is rendered in the full spectrum of horror revealed by the powerful lights. The blood-soaked pyjamas, my red stained hands, Heath's ashen visage.

"Oh my god!" I blurt out involuntarily and stagger backward.

Mark grabs my shoulder to arrest by motion, "come and sit Connor, Heath is in good hands. Let them work. Tell me what happened."

Mark sits me down and pours me a glass of water, it's only then that I realize I am breathing like I've run a marathon.

"I dunno Mark, someone took a shot at us--Jake or myself I guess--it missed, ricocheted off the door and caught Heath in the shoulder. A fucking arrow... they shot my kid with a fucking arrow."

"Where's Jake?"

"He took off after the bastard." I sip the water and again find myself distracted by my bloodied hands. I'm immediately sickened by the thought of just how much blood has left Heath's body. "I gotta wash up."

"Of course, let me grab you a wash cloth," Mark says. "You stay put."

While he's gone I finish the water despite my trembling hands and watch Nell, Freya and someone else tending to Heath. They hang an IV bag from the dining room chandelier and I overhear Nell say, "He's going to need some blood."

My heart sinks, Kate and Heath have the same blood type, but I don't, there is truly nothing I can do for him. My feelings of helplessness are compounded ten-fold with a deep regret of my inability to do nothing to protect my son. I have failed Kate, and I have failed Heath. My eye catches my titanium wedding band, I pull it up to my knuckle revealing the perfectly pristine skin, the only bit of flesh on either hand not bloodstained.

Nell turns to me, "Do you know Heath's blood type, Connor?" she asks jolting me from my distraction.

"A positive." I answer.

"Any yourself?"

"O." I reply, shaking my head.

"O-what?" She asks.

"O positive." I answer.

"Roll up your sleeves."

"What?"

"Heath needs some of your blood."

"Don't we have to be the same blood type?"

"Heath can take your blood, O will work just fine."

"Really?"

"Yes really, now roll up your sleeve and Sandy will do the rest."

The young man that was helping Nell walks over and says, "Hi, I'm Sandy. Have you ever given blood before."

"Yes," I answer. "But not for quite a few years."

"You're ok with needles then?" he asks as he unzips a duffle and dons a fresh pair of latex gloves.

"Yeah, I'm good."

"Are you on any medications, blood thinners, any known diseases or disorders, anything you can think of that would make your blood unsafe for your son?"

"No," I answer, grateful for Sandy's thoughtful, professional thoroughness under these less than ideal conditions.

Mark returns and hand me a wet cloth, I hurriedly scrub my hands quickly turning the cloth into a disgusting red and pink mess. Even still, my hands remain stained with my son's blood.

"Which arm?" I ask Sandy.

"Your choice."

I roll up my left sleeve as far as I can and stick my arm out. Sandy gives me a ball to squeeze and quickly punctures my vein. He works quickly and diligently, I appreciate his sense of urgency. Sandy instructs Mark to hold the small bag that is collecting my blood and tells him to just move it around a bit to keep the blood from forming clots.

Nell enters the room and takes a seat across from me. "I will give you the good news first," she begins. "Heath is fairly stable and resting, I gave him a little dilaudid for the pain which will be considerable when he's awake and the meds wear off. It's a deep laceration, down to the muscle, I have irrigated the wound and redressed it, but he needs a surgeon to repair it, I can't just stitch it up. He was lucky, I want you to understand this, an inch or two over and it would have cut his artery, you should count your blessings."

I strain to wrap my head around her words, it's a struggle to see any blessing in having your child skewered by an arrow. "What do I do now?"

"He needs blood, we are going to take care of that right now. That will help stabilize him, make it safer to move him. Then we need to get him to hospital where they can deal with the damage. He should be fine, but we need to get him into surgery as soon as possible. After that the only issue is risk of infection."

"Freya, can you get Hartt over here."

"Trevor and Raven are outside minding the generator," she answers from the dining room.

"Ask Hartt to step inside then, please."

Moments later Hartt is standing next to me, "What do you need Connor?"

"Heath is gonna need a ride to the hospital, Jake took off with my truck, can you take him in the TAPV?"

"Yeah, sure, as soon as he's ready to travel we'll go."

"Take Nell and Freya along too. Do you think Sabine could expedite the process of getting Heath in to see someone? I don't want him stuck in triage for hours."

"We'll get him in don't worry," he says, giving my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "I'll go grab the limo and park it out front."

It's well after midnight by the time the TAPV pulls away from the front of the Hennemann's house. I watch the large armoured beast rumble down the road, turn the bend and disappear. I thank a few people who turned out to lend a hand and start to walk home still in a bit of a daze.

"Need some company?" Raven calls after me.

"No, I'm good." I reply.

My walk home is a dizzying expedition, a thousand swirling thoughts, what-ifs and could-have-beens battle for my attention. I try desperately to focus, but it's no use. In the end I arrive at my front door with almost no memory of how I got there, what route I took or how long I had been walking. The door opens as I reach it and I find Ari waiting.

"You left your door open Connor," he informs me.

"Huh."

"I didn't think you needed more people over there, so I came here. How is Heath?"

"He needs surgery, but Nell says he will be okay." I notice that the pool of blood has been cleaned up to some degree, but I can still tell where the precious fluid seeped from my son's body as he laid on the floor. I'm doing my best to hold it together, but there is too much anger to bottle up and my seething rage boils over.

"They attacked me here, Ari!" I yell. "At home, in my home! They got Heath. THEY GOT HEATH!" I yell as my screams turn to sobs that roll over me in powerful waves. "What have I done? What am I doing wrong?"

"Nothing Connor, you are doing nothing wrong," Ari says in his soothing accented tone. He pulls me into a tight hug for a brief moment then releases me. For a second he purses his lips like he is locked in a moment of pensive contemplation. He waits a moment for me to regain my composure, "Connor," he says.

"What is it?" I ask, rubbing my burning eyes.

"Jake is here... in the garage," he says cautiously.

"What?" I reply. Now I'm certain I walked home in a complete fugue as I don't recall seeing the truck in the driveway, nor can I remember if the garage was open or closed.

"I want you to think carefully before you react Connor. Jake is here and he has brought a guest."

"What?" I say again. "A guest? He caught that fucker who shot Heath? Where are they?" I ask, nearly shouting. Instinctively my right hand moves to the gun on my thigh.

"Calm down Connor, be smart about this--"

"For fuck's sake Ari, where are they?" I yell.

Ari gives up and points toward the door to the garage. He won't accompany me, as I have come to learn, Ari's days of being a killer are past. While he has taught me many things and provided me with knowledge and skills that only a killer would know, that is no longer a defining quality of his. Ari seeks a peace now, some sort of reconciliation, with himself and the universe. He has witnessed horrors and partaken in them and now he wants no part in it. I feel like I have little choice in the matter. Violence begets violence and I am inexorably caught up in that cycle.

I fly through the door with such force it slams open into the wall and stays that way, the doorknob embedded in the unfinished drywall that lines the garage. Jake is standing guard quietly over a man seated in a folding lawn chair facing away from me. A single, small LPG gas lamp on the workbench provides the only source of light. The room is awash in long shadows. The small lamp hisses and sputters.

Slowly I start across the garage floor, Jake meets me halfway.

"Give me your gun," he says.

"Why?"

"Just do it man. It's for the best."

In no mood for a long-winded debate, I release the snap and draw the weapon slowly from its holster and hand it over to Jake. He tucks it in his waistband. Behind me Ari pries the door loose from the wall and closes it quietly.

"All yours," Jake says and steps aside.

Before I know what I am doing, I hoist the man from the chair and slam him into the wall. He appears to already be busted up to some degree, whether it's a result of Jake's handiwork or not I don't know nor do I care. There is no part of me right now that can muster up any degree of pity, all I feel is a blinding rage. It's this hateful anger that takes hold and any thought of showing an injured man mercy is wiped out completely as I envision Heath on the Hennemann's dining room table. My right fist crashes into the man's jaw with a loud SMACK and he crumples immediately to the ground. He lies there still, unmoving.

"Uh-uh, you ain't getting off that easy motherfucker," I say and kick him over so he's lying face up. I straddle the helpless man fully intent on raining punches down until his face is a bloody pulp of smashed flesh and shattered bone.

Jake loudly clears his throat.

"WHAT?" I yell, glaring up at him. He's watching me dispassionately from across the garage, his arms folded across his chest. Jake grabs the lamp off the work bench and walks over to us casting more light onto the hapless fellow on the receiving end of my wrath.

"Son...of...a...bitch," I say as the dawning of recognition hits me. "It's that little puke from that gang we ran into last year."

"Yup." Jakes says, deadpan. "Guess you should have punched him harder that night."

"Give me my gun."

"Nope."

"He shot Heath."

"I know, but that wasn't his target."

"Does that matter?" I ask, standing up.

"It might."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"It means you should try asking him some questions before giving him permanent brain damage. We can't interrogate a corpse and he's probably ready to talk. Hell, he pissed himself the moment you came through the door."

The urge to continue beating him is so great I can hardly resist driving my fist back into his face. I'm also coming to realize how irksome Ari and Jake can be when they advise a more reasonable course of action.

"Fine," I say, when I finally make my mind up not to kill the punk on the floor of my garage. Or at least not at this particular moment in time. Time's funny like that, there are always more moments to be had, right up until your last moment. Then you're a corpse and far too dead to give a fuck anyway.

Jake helps me haul the battered son-of-a-bitch off the floor and we muscle him back into the chair. I lash his wrists and ankles to the chair with plastic zip-ties. I probably cinch them down too tight for comfort, but I don't care.

Jake walks over to the door, when he opens it Ari is standing right there and he hands him a number of items. "It's good you did not kill him," he says to me over Jake's shoulder. I glare back at him in no mood for more of such nonsense.

I look on as Jake dumps some water over our prisoner's head. This rouses him slightly, but not enough. Jake snaps a capsule of smelling salts and presses it beneath the guy's nose. His head snaps back violently as his eyes flash open. For a few moments he shakes his head and blinks rapidly as he comes around. Jake finishes the procedure by wiping up the guy's bloody face with a wet cloth.

"See my buddy over there?" Jake asks the man indicating me. "You shot his little boy with an arrow." Jake holds up a shattered carbon fiber shaft, he waves the day-glo green fletching in front of the man's eyes. "We had to dig this out of the wall--if I give him this little souvenir, he will likely shove it through your eye socket and into your brain, and that will be that. You have made him very, very upset. Do you understand?"

The man nods. Wide, fearful eyes glance over at me then dart back to Jake before returning to their previous downward gaze.

"What is your name?"

"D-D-Danny," he answers, his voice barely audible.

"Do you remember us, Danny?" Jake asks. Danny nods again. "Who were you trying to kill? Me or Connor? Don't worry, I won't be offended. You wouldn't be the first guy to want me dead."

Danny remains motionless and speechless, staring at his lap.

"Danny, I don't like to ask twice." Jakes says, he voice steady. The implied threat has nothing to do with Jake and everything to do with me. "If you don't want to answer my questions, I can go inside and leave you out here with my friend. Is that what you want? Who were you trying to kill?"

Danny shifts uncomfortably in the chair, his movement limited due to the restraints. Slowly his eyes come up and he looks directly at me without saying a word.

"Mmm hmm," Jake nods then crosses the garage to grab himself a chair, which he unfolds and sets down directly in front of Danny. He takes a seat with an exaggerated sigh. "I really hate this shit, ya know. Look, Danny I can see you're trying to be reasonable guy, and I appreciate that. Hell, if Connor didn't want to kill you so bad, he'd likely appreciate it too. But you can't really blame the guy, after all you did shoot his kid." Jake digs through his coat pocket and produces a cigarette packet. "Do you smoke, Danny?" Jake says, offering Danny a cigarette. Danny nods. Jake lights one, take a drag and exhales a cloud of smoke before placing the cigarette between Danny's lips. The interaction seems fraternal, almost intimate.

Jake is right, I still want to kill the guy, but I am also completely fascinated watching this whole thing play out. The subtle manipulation unfolding before me as Jake expertly interrogates Danny, tearing him down layer by layer, brick by brick. I don't object to being the stick to the various carrots Jake is about to start dangling, I have no interest in a dialogue with our guest. My tear down would be far more visceral and the intent catches me off guard. How did I become that guy?

"You know what Jake? I need a break, I'm gonna take the dog for a walk and get some air," I say as I come to realize it's doing my mental health little good staying in the same room as Danny. "Maybe the fresh air will do me some good."

"That's likely a good idea," Jake agrees as I head for the door.

I pause with my hand on the door knob. "When I get back, if you don't have answers, it's my turn. Alright?"

Danny's eyes dart over to mine then back to Jake, they're filled with abject terror as he realizes he may never see another sunrise.

"Fair enough." Jake replies.

I open the door and step into the house, "Tick tock Danny boy." I say without looking back.