Bob Duncan was not having a good day. Not by any stretch of the imagination. Here it was, a glorious Saturday afternoon, and he was under the kitchen sink trying to fix a slow, steady leak that was far beyond his ability to repair. Before leaving for work that morning, his wife had smugly handed him a slip of paper with a plumber's phone number on it; he was determined not to need that number.

He was vaguely aware of his four children somewhere in the house. The older two were old enough to keep an eye on the younger two, but he wasn't completely sure that they were responsible enough. PJ, the oldest, was most likely playing his guitar or watching tv somewhere, while daughter Teddy could usually be trusted to be taking charge of her sister, two-year old Charlie. The only real wild card was 11 year-old Gabe, who was old enough to be trusted for short periods of time, but mischevious enough to need an occasional status update.

At the thought of his youngest son, Bob frowned. He hadn't heard anything out of Gabe for more than an hour. That could never be good.

As if on cue, he heard shouts from the living room. From his position under the sink, he couldn't quite make out which kid it was, or what the shouts were about. If it was just an argument over some childhood territorial dispute, he really didn't want to drag himself out; but there was always the chance someone was hurt. With a sigh, he untangled his bulk from the tiny space and hauled himself to his feet.

"In the kitchen!" He shouted.

"Dad! Help!" It was PJ.

Bob hustled through the swinging door and saw his sons making their slow way to the couch from the open door. PJ was half-carrying, half-supporting his little brother, who seemed to be having a great deal of difficulty putting one foot in front of the other.

"What happened?"

"I hit him in the head with a baseball. Knocked him right out."

Bob took Gabe from PJ and deposited him gently on the couch. "Gabe? Can you hear me?"

"Yeah, I can hear you – you're yelling," Gabe said. He held both hands to his head and scowled. "He didn't knock me out, Dad. He knocked me down. I'm fine."

"He was out, Dad. Flat out, not moving, eyes rolled back in his head—"

"I was not!"

"How many fingers am I holding up, Gabe?" Bob wished his wife was home. She was a nurse; she was better equipped to deal with this sort of thing.

"Three. I'm okay."

"What's going on?" Teddy had joined them, Charlie in her arms.

"Gabe taking nap?" Charlie wondered.

"Quiet!" Bob bellowed. In the sudden silence, he looked around at four pairs of eyes that watched him—two worried, one curious, and one decidedly unfocused. "Now. Gabe. Where did the ball hit you?"

"Right here." Gabe touched a spot just above his right ear – and winced.

"Tell me the truth, do you think you were knocked out? Even for a second?"

"Well … maybe for a second. I … I'm not sure," Gabe admitted.

"Okay," Bob said. "Teddy, I need you to stay with Charlie while PJ and I take Gabe to the emergency room, okay?"

"Sure, Dad," Teddy said with a quick nod. "Do you want me to call Mom?"

"Yeah, that's a good idea." Bob was pleased at her quick thinking. His wife worked at the same hospital, and it wouldn't do to surprise her. "Just make sure you're careful about what you tell her. Don't make her worry more than she has to."

"Gotcha."

"Ready to go, Kiddo?" Bob asked Gabe. Gabe nodded and let his father help him stand. After only a few unsteady steps, however, his legs buckled and he would have collapsed if Bob hadn't caught him.

"Easy, Gabe; I've got you," Bob told him. "PJ, go start the bug truck. We're right behind you."

"I can walk," Gabe protested. "I'm not a baby."

"I know you're not. Humor me, okay? I'll probably have a hernia by the time we get to the hospital. We'll have side-by-side beds."