Caine struggled to dispel his anger. It called in a sickening echo from the pit of his stomach as he first laid eyes on Kermit Griffin bending over his wife's limp body. The priest had seen what the blinding rage of that man had wrought on Peter's body. His child had willingly allowed himself to be battered as some sort of penance for an unintentional crime.

His own rage burned at the thought. The thought that someone.... anyone...would hurt his son.....

Summoning the will of his training, Caine pushed the anger out of his heart and flesh. He was Shaolin. Anger would not heal the festering wound that was Kermit Griffin. It would not save the woman who lay in a twilight prison. Anger would not restore his son or find the killer who had shattered the harmony from their lives.

Stepping lightly into the room, he stood in silent sympathy as he watched Kermit fight to hold onto his wife. Gripping her hand, the dark man whispered into Savannah's ear. Mumbled begging for her return hummed through the air. One large hand ran a tender path over the stilled life, stroking her hair and tracing her profile.

Hunched over to catch any sign of response, Kermit resembled another man Caine remembered from long ago. The priest spent long hours hovering over a gentle woman who held on to her life for him.

"I know that I must be the last person on earth you would care to help at this moment," Kermit spoke without taking his eyes from the woman's body, "but if you can help her..."

The request trailed off into a lack of adequate words.

"I will help in any way I can." Caine advanced to hold Savannah's other hand. "Perhaps, if I continue to strengthen her, she will eventually be able to return. She is a force that would not leave this life willingly, Kermit."

Kermit stretched himself upright. Every joint screamed for rest. Digging his fingers underneath his shades, he summoned all the humility left to him. "They told me you were here before. What can you do? Please..."

Caine held up his hand. Nearly touching the man's cheek but not quite. The suffering radiated from his body as a heat. Heat borne of desperation. "All of my meager skills, I will use. I can not guarantee an outcome, but all that I have to offer is at your service."

"Thank you." Kermit watched as the priest gently stroked the air above Savannah's body. If wanting could help bring her home, the aching husband had truckloads of it to offer. As Caine labored in some mystic ritual of focus, Kermit Griffin offered the force of his heart.

Long moments of powerful silence passed without response. Finally, Caine withdrew from his gentle ministrations. Touching the woman's quiet face lovingly, Caine looked back to his other patient. "She is fighting to live, Kermit. A strong woman."

"Will she survive?" The question eaked out with dread.

"I do not know." The priest moved fluidly around the gleaming metallic bed to address the man. "I do know that your wife struggles to remain with you."

"Will it be enough?"

"That remains to be seen. I will continue to do all I can to help her struggle." Caine watched as the man turned back to the focus of his wife. "Do you remember what you said to me at Katherine's first birthday party?"

"What?" The seemingly irrelevant question caught him by surprise.

"You thanked me for helping you and your wife to find one another. You thanked me for delivering your child. Both of which, I was honored to do." Caine crossed his arms and patiently baited his trap.

"Yes."

"I believe your words were, 'I owe you, Caine.'"

"Yes, I remember. Seems I'm adding to the tab." Stroking a stray golden curl away from Savannah's cheek. "Gladly."

"I ask only one thing from you. That you not add to my son's pain." Caine watched the man's back stiffen in anger once again. "This tragedy will not be healed by venting your rage on Peter. His error was not an attack on you or your wife. His suffering is as great as yours. Rending his body and spirit will not save your own...or Savannah's."

All that he was screamed for vengeance. Kermit felt the weight of that beast groaning in anger through his body. "Contrary to what you may believe about me, Caine, I have some honor left in me.....but I do hate him."

"At this moment, you do."

"But, I love her more." She had honor. She would expect him to honor his promises. Kissing the fragile hand in his, he forced out words he didn't want to speak. "I do owe you. For the past and for anything you can do to help her. I won't lie and say I forgive him. I don't. I never will. But I will stay away from him as long as he doesn't come within breathing distance of my wife or my daughter. The powers that be can have him."

With a gentle bow, Caine backed away from the room, grateful for the vow that might save both men. Quietly, the priest bowed to an efficient woman in white as she made her way into the room.

Dr. Ashton eyed the odd man cautiously. "Mr. Caine?" she asked, cautiously offering her hand. To his gentle handshake and nod, the doctor said, "I'm aware of your ministrations to my patient and though I'm still skeptical, I'm open to your continued visits."

"I am honored to be of assistance." Caine bowed and released her hand.

"Good," the woman answered, just a touch of nervousness in her voice. She was about to delve into the specifics of his art when the plain man simply turned and disappeared down the corridor. Shrugging off her questions, the woman picked up her patient's chart and dove into her rehearsed conversation. "Mr. Griffin, she is improving. There hasn't been a crisis in a week." Quickly checking Savannah's vital signs, she continued, "If we can make it through another week, I think she'll be out of danger."

"What about the coma and the brain damage?" He didn't want to lap up the hope she had just offered. Pessimism had become his perpetual state.

"I don't know." As the man shook his head in disgust, Dr. Ashton leapt on the thread of good news. "But she's alive. That's reason to celebrate. More than we had dared hope when she first came in, right?"

"Yeah," the sarcasm dripped from his exhaustion, "a fuckin' Marti Gras we have here."

Ignoring the remark, she shifted to the next order of business. "Like I said, if she stays stabilized for another week, we can safely assume that the damage from the bullet wounds has healed." Keeping her tone level and factual, she added, "Given a month with no change, we'll need to begin making arrangements for her long term care."

The dread and silence bounced off the walls. Long-term care. "Explain that, please."

"Well, once the internal injuries have healed, Savannah will no longer require the services of the hospital. A nursing home environment would be more appropriate for her care. I can recommend several excellent facilities in the area where I have privileges, if she doesn't come out of it before that time."

"So, we're just supposed to warehouse her in some mausoleum? Dump her in a bed somewhere to rot?!" The anger was unfocused now, looping out to encompass anyone in its path.

Daring to put a hand one the rigid shoulder, the doctor offered all the reassurance she had in reach. "No indeed, Mr. Griffin....Kermit. We're just going to move her to a place where the focus is on people in her condition. She can get more specialized care there. We're not going to put the brakes on our plan. We're going to keep trying to stimulate her senses. We're going to keep strengthening her body any way we can. I'm NOT giving up on this woman because I've seen the family she built. The friends who love her." Folding the chart closed, she smiled. "I want to meet this lady."

"She's worth waiting for." After a deep breath, Kermit turned to face the doctor who cared so much for his wife. "Can you get me the names of the facilities? I'd like to check them out myself. Security is as important as the care she'll receive."

It was easy to forget the violent attack that had inflicted her patient's injuries. "Have the police made any progress on catching the shooter?"

"No."

"Well," Dr. Ashton hung the chart back on the bed, "hope the little bastard gets what he deserves."

"He will."

The heartbreak and helplessness hung on the man like a shroud. The doctor could read the emotional pain paralyzing the detective. He loved his wife fiercely. What a lucky woman to have that to hang on to, she thought, watching the way he cradled her patient's hand.

"Detective, like I said, stimulating her senses is about the only positive course of action we can claim." Carefully, the doctor moved the I.V. tubing out of the way. "Her stitches have healed enough to move her." Slowly reaching in front of the surprised detective to lower the bed rail, she said, "You can hold her for a while. I bet she would enjoy that. Just be careful to support her neck and watch that you don't disconnect the lines." With a near pat to his arm, Dr. Ashton left them to their privacy.

God, he had wanted this since the second he saw her scattered over the precinct steps. He neatly folded back the drab cotton blanket and sheet. The wrinkled blue gown molded her petite body. Haltingly, Kermit slid his arms under Savannah's shoulders and legs. The body yielded like silk, flowing into his embrace as he eased his way up onto the bed. Gently supporting her neck and head, Kermit pulled her to his body. Long blonde hair played lazily over his arm. The velvet texture of her skin stroked this other arm as her legs draped down over him.

Rocking slowly, Kermit absorbed the sensations into his drought of feeling. He had always loved to hold her, to carry her off to bed in some grand gesture. Savannah would giggle and moan into his ear and play along with his Rhett Butler routine. She felt so good.

"God, I've missed you." Even in unconsciousness, her body seemed to know him. Or maybe he was imagining the way she flowed into a perfect fit. Comforting her was like comforting himself. The peaceful features looked up at him. Completely relaxed. "I'm here, Scarlett....I'm here."

She would know. He was certain she would know he was holding her, crushed to his chest like a treasure. Wherever her consciousness lay locked away, she would feel his arms and know she wasn't alone.

"I'm here..."

But even if she didn't know, at least he knew.

******

Peter caught his reflection in a window as he walked slowly down the precinct corridor and stopped to peruse himself, reflexively straightening his tie. He looked at the man staring back at him. Bloodshot eyes, disheveled hair that resisted his use of the comb, and the hint of the four-day whiskers that he'd just shaved off. He let his hands drop to his sides. What's the use? He looked like he'd have a better chance auditioning for the lead in "Night of the Living Dead." Why am I doing this? Why am I even bothering?

He knew why the second he'd asked the question. He was fighting for his life, fighting for a chance to repair some of the damage he'd caused.

But why was he trying to get his badge back? Why did he bother with a second kangaroo court? He sighed, closing his tired eyes, rubbing them with the heels of his hands. He realized it was his way of trying to turn back the clock; somehow putting the events in reverse, to un-do the damage.

Peter snorted derisively at that notion. He'd been trying to turn the clock back all his life, for as long as he could remember. His mother. Then, too soon after, his father. Then all the scum on the street and every mistake he'd ever made. He relived them all, hoping to open his eyes and find a different world for himself. That it was just a bad dream and once he woke, it would all be over. It never worked. And now, he was going to try it one more time.

"Hey," a voice cut into his thoughts as a hand clamped onto his shoulder. "Forget the primping - it's a lost cause. Let's go."

Peter turned to see T.J. staring at him, supportive and worried. "You shouldn't have done this, T.J."

"Better I should leave you in that bar, coughing your guts out in that smoke?" T.J. asked rhetorically.

"Yes."

"Never happen, my friend," T.J. said, his hand urging the other along by the shoulder. "Don't know how you can stand that place. I had to throw away the coat I was wearing. Figured I would never get the smell out of it!"

"Why?"

"Because smoke really sticks to synthetics and-"

"T.J. You went to the Commissioner and probably tossed your pride in a bucket to reassign the case. You would have had to search for evidence in every case that Saulters had ever touched. You had to prepare a report complex enough and convincing enough to sway the Internal Affairs. All at considerable risk to your own career."

"Whew," T.J. grinned, "no wonder I'm tired."

"Why?" T.J. sealed his mouth shut as they walked into the elevator together. Only when the doors closed, did he turn to his friend. "Peter, when I was a kid, all I ever wanted to be was a cop. Like Starsky and Hutch." T.J. noted the tired smile that crossed Peter's face. "Like my dad. He may not resemble street material now, behind a desk, but there's a good cop inside there, too. Why did I pull in a few favors to help you? Because you were meant to be out there, Caine. You're a good cop. There aren't many of those. We have to preserve the ones that we've got."

Peter was saved from comment by the doors opening.

"Detective Caine," T.J. gestured ahead with an extended arm, "your public awaits!"

"Swell."

The questioning was much the same, Peter reflected, although, without Saulters, there was a world of difference. There was an absence of a towering angry man, blood dripping with every spoken word. The cutting tone of persecution was gone. There were only the calm, dispassionate, toneless questions asking him about the facts. Even so, the cold, hard facts were enough to hang him.

"So, you deliberately set Wong up, knowing that his life would be in danger?"

"Yes. I'd hoped that he'd run to the police for protection."

"On the day of the shooting, he was doing precisely as you'd planned."

Peter looked startled. No one had pointed that out to him. "Yes,sir."

"So, if Jimmy Wong had been one second sooner or one second later, your plan would have worked."

"There's no way to know that, sir," Peter said, refusing to grab the lifeline that was offered. *Besides, that's probably all they want. As soon as I reach for it, they'll yank it away.*

"In the matter of Mrs. Griffin-"

"How-?" Peter swallowed his question and looked to the floor.

"How what, Detective?"

The use of his title was not lost on him but he shook his head. "Never mind, sir."

"What were you going to ask?" The tone was still devoid of emotion, but insistent.

Peter sighed. "I just wanted to know...if you knew... how she was doing. Sir." As he studied the floor once again, he added, "I can call later. I just...wondered if you might know." There was a long pause. Peter was kicking himself. Why did I have to open my big mouth?

"Mrs. Griffin is still critical," one of them supplied. Peter couldn't help but sigh audibly that she still hadn't died. A reaction that was noticed by the IA investigator. "Detective and Mrs. Griffin are your friends, correct?"

"What does that have to do...yes,they are...were," Peter corrected. Just answer their questions.

"If you were friends with Mrs. Griffin, you certainly never envisioned her to be in the path of the bullets. Correct?"

"Yes, sir," Peter said.

"Why did you disregard Detective Griffin's advice to not go through with your plan?"

"I thought my plan would work. I thought it'd be worth it. I was wrong." Peter again felt the searing knife of emotion at seeing Savannah lying there bleeding over the pavement. An innocent paying the debt for his failed gamble. Swallowing deeply, he hid it the best that he could.

"What if," one of them asked, the tone obviously curious, "the victim had been another woman? One that you weren't personally acquainted with?"

Peter struggled with that concept. "I'm not sure I understand the question," he finally said. "But any woman...any innocent being...in Mrs. Griffin's place would be...would be....I believe I would accept the responsibility regardless." He hoped that that was what they were asking. Would he be grieving just as much? Maybe not, but he would still feel the crushing guilt on him.

"Why did you want to become a peace officer, Detective?"

"To be..." Peter had to resist the urge to laugh maniacally, "...a hero."

"And now? Why do you want your job back as a detective?"

Peter thought about it, still studying the floor as if it had some long-lost answers for him. "To..." He was stumped on this one. Could he tell them he wanted to atone for his soul? To right all that he'd done wrong? Geez, peddle this corn in the theaters! Sitting up a little straighter, he said, "To help others."

"All right, Detective Caine, you can go. We'll have a decision for you tomorrow."

Peter stood up, wanting to thank them for their time, but figuring that would look like brown-nosing. He settled for a nod as he turned and closed the door behind him. His fate was in the hands of three men he didn't even know. Peter again laughed at the irony as he awaited his sentence.

He was tired. The kind of tired that weighed down his bones and suffocated his thoughts. All of his attempts to dispel the awkward burden had failed. Alcohol had been a foolish choice, he decided, as he leaned back on the wall. Meditation eluded him. Stillness and quiet only brought forth the bloody play of the past days. He could smell the thick odor of blood. Savannah's blood. Jimmy Wong's blood. He could see it soaking into Kat's little clothes.

Most of all, he could still feel that little girl's bright green eyes. Dazed with shock and red-rimmed, she had briefly focused on him. Uncle Peter. Sometime baby-sitter. The man with ready shoulders to carry her around. Chin tickler. The man responsible for destroying her life.

Closing his eyes against the painful fluorescent bulbs, Peter fought the obvious conclusion. Kermit hated him, which was painful enough. One day, Kat would hate him, too. That was unbearable.

"The pain colors your judgment, my son." Caine blew his gentle comfort at his son's torch of despair. Reaching for Peter's hand, he kept his tone low and gentle. "It also colors the judgment of your friend."

"Friend?" Peter bled out the word with sarcastic laughter. "Friend? I don't think Kermit would appreciate that tag anymore, Pop." Tactfully jamming his hands into his pockets to avoid the offered touch, Peter turned to walk down the hall. Any getaway was preferable to being laid open under his father's examination.

Kwai Chang Caine followed. Walking slowly beside his tortured son, he absorbed wave after wave of the turmoil smothering the young man. Peter had rejected his care with tangible force. Mental and physical. Many times over the past days, Caine had reached out, only to meet a wall of resistance. But, as he had always done, the priest would persist.

Resisting his father was wearing away at Peter Caine's resources. He walked faster, hoping his father would let himself fall behind. Hoping he would fade back into the mass of others who were for or against him and leave him alone. The physical touches were horrible to endure. The sympathy. The love. He didn't deserve them. He had thrown away all rights to compassion and understanding after what he had done. He had turned his back on the value of life in pursuit of his own twisted justice. The cascade of violence had consumed them all.

"You must all heal, my son," Caine persisted, "then you and Kermit will be able to see the truth without this cloud of guilt and hatred."

The pace had quickened into a slow trot. Peter trying to shake his father. His father refusing to fall away. *Get to the car and drive away.* Peter cut a straight line to his vehicle, desperate to claw away his father's gentle comfort. Jamming his key into the door of the deep blue Stealth, he was nearly free when one large hand planted itself firmly against the metal.

"Pop..." The word could have been one of frustration or a plea. He wasn't sure.

Redirecting the flow of his confrontation, Caine looked directly into his child's suffering eyes. "What was the result of this second questioning with your superiors?" The older man reached once again for his son's hand. This time, the touch was allowed.

"I won't know until they're ready to tell me." The touch on his hand, the gentle massage, began to creep under his defenses.

"Do you wish to remain a police officer?"

Did he? The question had plagued him since T.J. had interfered with the first IAD inquiry. "Yes, I do."

"It will be a difficult road to travel." Caine could feel the barriers receding. Emotional walls softening.

"As it should be." It would be easier to walk away. Easier wasn't what he had in mind. Peter's rigid self-punishment reasserted itself. Dripping ice over his father's warm stream of comfort.

"Do you wish to remain a police officer to help others," Caine withdrew his hand at the unspoken retreat, "or to punish yourself?"

"Two birds with one stone, Pop," Peter replied, flatly exposing the depth of his self-deprecation. It was the first time he had been honest about his motivations. Fumbling the key once again into the door, he added, "Who knows, maybe I'll get it right this time."

Stepping away as his son jerked open the car door, Caine continued his delicate probe. "And you feel that you have not 'gotten it right' before?"

Before diving into the solitude of his vehicle, Peter Caine answered, "That much is obvious." With one quick look, he fled.

******

Kwai Chang Caine was meditating. He seemed to be meditating more and more these days. He needed it to calm his own troubled soul before he could help others. It was agony to stand in that hospital waiting room, feeling the pain of the others. Savannah's utter near-lifelessness. Mary Margaret's stone-cold fear about the future and the welfare of her friends. Jody's determination to help despite her complete pessimism. His son's total despair and guilt. Kermit's anger and helplessness. Even his own heartache over everyone's pain and his inability to help...all of it washed into Caine like a tidal wave. He had to settle his soul. This was too much for one man. Yet, he must persevere. He had no choice.

Caine only wished that he could persuade his son to join him in meditation. Peter needed it as much as he. Probably more. He doubted that his son would ever realize it, though. Peter was stubbornly independent and, especially during stressful times, resisted active attempts to help him.

Knowing this, Caine was never as surprised as when Peter suddenly appeared, meekly knocking on the door frame of the residence. Yesterday, after the second hearing, Peter had fled from his company and comfort. Now.....he was here. Caine smiled slightly in his relief.

"Uh...Pop?" the young man asked humbly. "Can I...come in?"

"You are always welcome, Peter," Caine told him in a matter-of-fact tone. He rose gracefully to make tea. To his further surprise, Peter did not protest or try to stop him.

Instead, his son ran his fingers through his hair, a gesture always used to indicate his nervousness, as he approached his father. "Pop, ummm...I just wanted to....Look, I'm sorry about how I talked to you. I'm taking it out on you when you're trying to help."

Caine smiled slightly as he prepared the tea. "There is no need--"

"Yeah, there is," Peter insisted. "Look, I may be an irresponsible jerk but I'm owning up to my mistakes." Caine opened his mouth to protest the 'irresponsible jerk' but Peter plunged on. "Pop, one thing I want to make clear, okay? I know you want to help. The way I was hoping you could help is sticking by Savannah. I know I won't be welcome there if I try. She's the victim here, not me. She's the one that needs your help. And please, try to help Kermit, too."

"Peter," Caine raised his voice slightly to interrupt his son's diatribe, "you MUST resolve this rift between you and Kermit. If you do not, it will cause irrevocable harm. Not only to the two of you, but also to Savannah."

"That's not for me to decide, Pop," Peter said, raising his hands defensively.

"You have a part to play in this, as well, my son," Caine insisted. "You have the hardest task of all. You must forgive yourself of any wrongdoing."

Peter shook his head. "Well, I guess it's not going to happen then, because I will never forgive myself. Nor should I."

"You must, Peter," Caine told him. "It will help Kermit immensely if you can do this."

Peter gaped at him. "How will my forgiving myself affect Kermit, besides getting him more pissed than he is right now?"

"Kermit must forgive himself as well. He does not know how. He feels guilty for not being there when Savannah was hurt. You must show him how to forgive."

"But...how can Kermit blame himself? He couldn't have done anything. That's unreasonable," Peter asked, shaking his head. "He couldn't have predicted this."

"Yes," Caine nodded. "Neither could you."

Peter was about to reply when another soft knock sounded in the doorway. The two men turned to see a familiar form, watching them with concern.

"Hello? I didn't mean to disturb--"

"C'mon in, Captain," Peter said, grateful for the interruption.

Captain Simms walked into the abode, her starched formality firmly in place. Caine turned to fetch another cup of tea but she declined with a small shake of her head. "I have some news," she said.

Peter sighed. "Go for it." He stood there as if waiting for a firing squad, silently wondering what the hell he'd do with his life now.

"You're re-instated."

Peter frowned. "What?"

"You're back on the force. Your termination is terminated." Watching Peter's face, she held up a cautionary hand. "It's not all good news, I'm afraid. You will have to undergo a probationary period as a patrolman. Six months as a minimum, possibly more. It all depends on your job performance. *But* once that period has ended and after you've proven yourself --which I have no doubt that you will -- you will be returned to full Detective."

Peter blew out his breath. He didn't know whether to be glad or sorry, but he did believe in an odd way that it was fate. "Thank you, Captain. Will I...do I report to you...?"

"No. There's been a conflict of interest established." That was the least of it. Karen Simms left out her conversation with the persons in question; she also left out that she had been questioned herself, as intensely as Peter had with the IA investigator. They had questioned her professionalism, which made her lose her temper. Graphically. "You will report to the 59th on Monday morning. Perhaps, after a while, you can apply for a transfer."

Peter nodded.

"You'll do fine, Det-....Officer." Karen cursed the near slip as she returned Peter Caine's badge and gun. Offering a gentle smile, she said, "Good to have you back on the team."

"Hope you're still saying that six months from now, Captain." Peter accepted his weapon and his shield, then watched the woman leave.

"Congratulations," Caine said dryly.

Peter quirked a half-smile at him. He knew what was on Caine's mind. 'Be careful what you wish for -- you may get it.'

"You must remember to not fight yourself, Peter," Caine advised. "You must be the man that you are."

"The man that I am got me into this mess, Pop," Peter countered. "Maybe it's time for a change of tactics."

******

Kermit was about ready to kill something. Slowly and painfully. "YES, this is a police matter," he told the person on the other end of the phone line as he broke his pencil in two. He had allowed himself a few hours away from the hospital. When Savannah was discharged, she would need a convalescent home. It was up to him to find an acceptable one. The precinct was close by and more convenient than the long trip across town to his home.

"Yes, the patient was involved in a gang hit. Security is VERY necessary. No, you will not have to pay for anything. The security provided will cost nothing to you except power." A lengthy pause as Kermit gritted his teeth. "Thank you very much."

SLAM!

Kermit resisted the urge to pull the phone out of the wall in his frustration. Instead, he turned once more to his computer, hoping for a miracle. No one wanted to make the extra effort for his wife. He was going to have do this his way; the hard way. Henry Lao's escape to China did little to lessen his dread of another attempt on Savannah's life. Police protection had been withdrawn. Personal protection was all she had left.

Come on, you're the intelligence agent. Use some intelligence. He had to make them want to take Savannah in, complete with security precautions. Musing, he realized that the phone was the wrong way to go. He had to do this in person. It was the only way.

Getting up, he put on his jacket, just as a knock sounded on his office door. He opened it to see his captain, cheeks flushed from outside. "Too late," he told her. "I already have a lunch date."

"May I speak with you, Detective?" The tone left little room for argument -- although Karen knew if Kermit really did have an appointment, he'd be ignoring her request completely. He didn't ignore her. He made a sweeping motion with his hand to escort her inside and closed the door behind her.

"What?" he said. "I really do have to go somewhere."

"I wanted to tell you the news personally," Karen said, dreading his reaction, "before it hit the grapevine. Peter has been reinstated."

"WHAT?!!" The fury welled up inside him once more. He had thought that Peter Caine was gone for good.

"They reopened the case because the IAD officer in charge was biased against Peter. They reviewed it and overthrew the termination. He's on probation as patrol for six months."

Kermit snorted. "Just who I'd want, protecting little kids at crosswalks. Thanks so much, Captain. Now, if you don't mind, I have to make sure that his latest victim is cared for."

"Kermit!"

Her cry went unheeded as Kermit opened his door, slamming it against the wall with the force, and stormed out of the precinct.

With the force of a bulldozer, Kermit Griffin plowed his way through the emergency room doors. It was two a.m. and he found himself amid the normal gathering of gunshot-mva-stabbing victims that found their way to the hospital after a typical Saturday night.

Disregarding the crowd, and cuddling a limp and feverish toddler in his arms, the man raced to the nurse's station, looking for help. Only fifteen minutes earlier, he'd checked on his daughter to find her burning with fever and whimpering in a tangle of sweaty sheets. In a panic, he had struggled into the dark police department t-shirt and windbreaker that he had worn on a raid earlier that day and sped to the emergency room. He should never have left her. Karen had asked him to help with a bust on the river front and he'd agreed. Now, Kat was desperately ill and it was his fault for not being there!

Kat had barely registered the trip. Barefoot and in damp pajamas, the toddler was far to ill to react. Now, the bright red cheeks puffed with tiny cries as her father pounded on the desk.

"HEY! I need a doctor here! NOW!" With the finesse of a landslide, the man tried to summon help.

Calmly, a nurse answered his less than polite summons. Handing him a clipboard, she instructed, "Have a seat in the waiting room, sir, and fill out these forms."

Promptly taking the despised forms and clattering them to the desktop, he clarified his position. "You don't understand, Miss. This is my daughter and she has a dangerously high fever. She can't wait."

"Did you take her temperature," the woman perused the I.D. still dangling from his jacket, "Detective Griffin?"

"No," he responded, cataloguing the first in many omissions he would discover that evening. "But I can feel her head and she's burning up. Feel!" He grabbed the woman's hand and plastered it to Kat's forehead.

Years of experience with frantic family members allowed the nurse to remain calm. "Yes, she does have quite a burner going on in there, don't you, sweetie?" She gently stroked the little girl's cheek.

Grateful to be understood, he tried again. "Good. Now, which way do I go?" He glanced back over the station to the exam rooms.

"To the waiting area." Handing him the forms, she repeated, "Fill out these forms and we'll call you shortly."

"Don't you get it, lady?!! She's sick. I'm not waiting! Get somebody out here NOW!"

As if in response, Kat roused slightly and began a plaintiff wail into the gathering crowd. One tiny hand clawing at her ear and the other tugging at her father's shirt.

"Look, sir, if you don't cooperate, we can't help-"

"It's all right, Carrie," Dr. Sabourin interrupted. "I'll take this one." She had Griffin experience and gently took the little girl from the protective grasp of her father.

"But there's no paperwork yet, Doctor!" The nurse tried desperately to hold on to a bit of organization in an unorganized situation.

"I'll handle it," came the terse reply as the tall, dark-haired physician led a grateful father to an exam cubicle.

Settling the little girl on a bed, the doctor began her inquiry. "What's the trouble here, cutie?" Beginning her examination by listening to her patient's lungs, she listened to the bare details the panicked father could offer.

"I checked on her a few minutes ago and she was on fire and whimpering in her bed. I came straight here." Kermit held Kat's little hand and the doctor listened intently to her chest. It seemed like only yesterday that he had had Savannah ripped away from him in this very emergency room. Stop! Focus on Kat.

"Temp?"

"I didn't take it. Just came here."

"Did you give her anything for the fever? Tylenol? Motrin?"

"No." His lack of expertise was showing. Savannah handled illnesses. Medicines were her area and said area was left unattended in her absence.

As she peered into the child's ears, she asked, "Any other symptoms?"

"Her sitter said that she had a runny nose." The late night sitter he used when he was on duty after hours had made no particular comments or cautions about the cold. Only that she had put her to bed early with a runny nose. That's it. She was obviously incompetent. She was fired. Why didn't she notice how ill Kat was before she put her to bed? "What is it?! What's wrong with her?"

Dr. Sabourin knew this man and the dreadful situation his family found itself in at the moment. Wife upstairs in a coma for the past weeks, this dark man was now the single parent to a small child. Quietly and confidently, she began his first instruction in childhood illness. "Detective, did you notice her pulling on her ears?"

"Yes?" What did that have to do with anything?

"Little Kat has an ear infection. They can come on suddenly as the result of drainage from a cold or sinus infection. The fever can shoot up and scare the daylights out of you," she explained, using the electronic thermometer to take Kat's temperature inside her bright red ear. "102.5. Very high but not unusual with this type of infection."

"How serious is it? Are you going to admit her?" He leaned down to kiss the inflamed forehead as Kat dozed in her fitful state.

Oh, boy.... thought the doctor, all the while feeling sorry for the new ground this man was crossing alone. "No need for that. I'm going to have the nurse give her Tylenol for the fever and then we'll give her a shot of Rocephin to fight the infection. If the fever doesn't drop within the hour, give her a dose of Motrin, half a teaspoon. That should cool her off." Scribbling on a pad, she said, "Here's a prescription of more antibiotics to give her twice a day and that should clear it right up in about a week. You'll need to continue the Tylenol every four hours for the temperature."

Knowing that this man probably had no clue as to what was in his medicine cabinet, she offered helpfully, "I'll give you enough samples of both so that you need not drag this baby through a drugstore at this hour of night."

Unable to help himself, Kermit gathered his rag doll daughter into his arms again. "That's it?"

"That's it," the doctor confirmed, "but just a little warning. She may have some diarrhea and vomiting as a side effect. Just keep fluids in her. Gatorade is good, and things like crackers or rice. I'll send in the nurse for the shot, then you can take her home in about thirty minutes." Giving her patient a gentle stroke on the cheek and smiling up at the rapidly calming father, the doctor whispered, "She'll be fine. So will you."

Kermit nodded his thanks and decided to hold his daughter until the nurse arrived.

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