Why hadn't they thought this through, instead of running into the old house, the house with the broken door slightly ajar, just because their suspect had run in? Would they have done the same in an abandoned mine shaft; a dilapidated bridge; a burned-out factory? No, but the house bore no "condemned" sign; no missing walls; no obvious structural damage; it was just an old, long-uninhabited house; a "for sale" sign of unknown vintage rusting in the overgrown lawn; half-hidden by tall weeds. A house is always a home; one judges it to be safe and welcoming – it has to be proven otherwise to be deemed unsafe.

And the four of them on the team had charged in, from the front and the back; and when finding no one on the first floor, Gibbs, Tony and Ziva had headed to the second floor while Tim was left to double-check closets and such on the first, and then the basement. Sadly and suddenly, the weight of the three of them running on the second floor – of the old termite-ridden house –of the sad, lonely old ,old house, that must have once been where boisterous, happy children laughed and played – part of the second floor, floor and wall, wall including an old chimney, crumbling down to the first floor – gave way. Tony, luckily, jumped away in time to keep from falling in the hole; Tim, directly underneath, was not at all lucky.

- - - - -

"We were chasing a suspect. We didn't know that the house wasn't structurally sound. Had I known –"

"Do you often have your team take such risks. Gibbs?"

How to answer? "We're law enforcement. The job entails some risks. My people have been taught how to keep themselves as safe as possible, and I do look out for them."

"You don't consider them expendable, then?"

He barely stopped himself from slamming his fist on the table. "Of course not! They are not, and never will be! They –"

Tony arrived with the food. He saw the looks on their faces and only mumbled, "Pay me back later," then fled.

"I know all about taking risks, Gibbs. I wasn't just some secretary at the NSSL."

He would never have thought she was. Tim's IQ, he knew, was in the stratosphere – no pun intended; Cleo McGee's – Hansen's – appeared to be there, too. He was still of a generation that didn't expect this of women his age, but he eyed her, and guessed: "You were a storm chaser."

"Yes," she said, pride evident in her voice. "From the late 70s until the program largely disbanded in the late 80s. I was a team leader, like you, out there with the younger researchers and the U of O meteorology students, every spring; following the wall clouds and microbursts. Chasing tornadoes, if you will."

"Like in the movie Twister."

"Yes, pretty much. We took risks. Calculated risks. Some proved to be more dangerous than others."

"Did you ever see a cow flying through the air?"

Finally, a smile. "No, never a cow. Lots of other debris, though. It was exciting." She wasn't looking at him, but he thought he could see her eyes glowing.

She continued. "By the late 1980s, the program had been going on for about 15 years, and the NSSL had about as much data as could be tracked with today's – well, that day's – level of computers. So it went fallow. When he was old enough to understand, Tim would often worry about me going out on a chase. Like any child growing up in Oklahoma, he had a mixture of fear and fascination of tornadoes. He knew to hit the cellar when the sirens went off. But Kale, that's my husband, and I would tell him Mommy would be all right on her chases; she knew how to stay safe, and it was okay to take risks when you knew what you were doing."

"Is your husband at the hospital today?"

"No, since Tim is improving, he left for home last night. He can't neglect his work for too long. Your phone call, Thursday, stirred him. I don't think I'd ever see him book a flight so fast in his life..."

- - - - -

The team had raced to the hospital, almost beating the ambulance. Tim was still alive on hitting the emergency room, but Gibbs read the doctors' looks: grim, grim, grim, each face.

Gibbs pulled out his phone and dialed the number he'd never before dialed; a number stored in its directory for only such a catastrophe. "Hello, Is this Mr. McGee? My name is Jethro Gibbs. I'm calling from NCIS. About Tim..."

- - - - -

He'd let Tony and Ziva wait there for a few hours with him; then after three, sent them away. He wasn't sure how long it would take the flight to get to Washington; whether they had to change planes anywhere. But he didn't want Tony and Ziva there when the parents arrived; not to add to the tension; not to say the wrong thing. Of course, their suspect had gotten away. "Go back and process the scene," Gibbs had directed Tony and Ziva. "See what you can find."

They were astounded. "Gibbs! No!" Ziva cried. "How can we just walk out and leave McGee here?!" Tony was equally adamant. "That's our Probie in there!!"

"It has to be done, and it'll keep your minds off this. Maybe." said Gibbs. "I'll wait here, and I'll call you the minute there's news. That's not a request, you two! GO!!"

They'd left, but not without throwing baleful looks at him.

- - - - -

After too many hours – seven, really, but faster than Gibbs had expected – with Tim still in surgery, they appeared. He didn't know for sure it was them, though they seemed about the right age; he'd no idea what they looked like, but something in the way they held themselves, people seemingly shepherded by invisible angels at the edge of their panic; parents who could only look that stunned at the possibility of losing a child.

The man was tall and broad-shouldered, had black hair (graying at the temples), and wore glasses. Kind of like an older Clark Kent, Gibbs thought, somewhat irrationally. The man's arm was around the woman and Gibbs couldn't see her face at this angle; just saw that she had long light brown hair, worn up in a twist, and her shoulders were hunched. In her hand was a crumpled handkerchief – probably her man's.

Gibbs heard the nurse's soft words. "Mr. and Mrs. McGee?"; saw their faint nods. He rose. This was his time to leave. Tim's real family was here, and his coworkers – his friends – had no place, unless invited.

- - - - -

"We drove out to the house Saturday, while Tim was in treatment. We had to see it for ourselves. Sarah – wouldn't come. She's still a bit shell-shocked."

- - - - -

Tony had shaken his head as Gibbs walked by his desk on Friday. "Boss, I've tried calling Sarah three times to get an update on the Probie. Three times. She's hung up on me each time."

"She's hurting. She blames us. Give her time."

- - - - -

"Of course we didn't go inside – the house is now marked condemned and there is yellow caution tape all around the property..."

"Mrs. McGee, I swear to you, if I'd had any inkling at all that the house was unsafe..."

"But pursuing criminals is part of your job. If you'd thought it to be a little unsafe, would you have gone in? Sent your team in?"

He shook his head. "I'm no engineer. I can't judge what 'a little unsafe' means in a house. Rotting stairs, or rotting support beams? No. That's off the chart of a calculated risk. Had I known what I know now, we'd have surrounded the house and gotten the suspect to come out somehow."

"But there are other times when your team is in danger..."

"Sure. But the only risks I approve of are the calculated ones."

"That sounds so positive and warm and fuzzy, Gibbs, but I just can't agree. We can't live our lives in fear. The people who make a difference, who make the world a better place or expand our knowledge of the universe are often those who take risks: physical, emotional, social, political. I – Kale and I – did not want our son growing up afraid, growing up unwilling to challenge himself, unwilling to sometimes engage in risky behavior. It's unfortunate enough that he inherited my tendency toward seasickness, and Kale's severe allergy toward poison ivy."

Gibbs had started to clear up the lunch debris, and halted, in sudden realization. "Are you saying—"

She eyed him over the last of her can of Pepsi. "Just what do you think I'm saying?" Her tone was cold.