Jim and the Population Control Officers

They have invaded his home. They have torn up their furnishings; they have destroyed any concept they had of privacy. It does not matter to him that they are, technically, justified. They have frightened his child. They have pushed her to tears, and there is not a single one of them that looks even remotely something like sorry to have done so.

His initial response is to be angry. It is the first thing that occurs to him, and it is so automatic that he does not even process that that is what he is thinking and feeling until the words have already come out of his mouth and been hurled in the population control officer's direction. A member of his family is being threatened, and it only makes sense to him to threaten back. It is a standard response from him. It is what he does. If something threatens his family, he is supposed to intercede. That is his place; that is his role. If his daughters cry, he removes the reason for their tears as best he can. He is supposed to be the one who chases away the things in the dark that linger around causing nightmares. This, however, is not a nightmare born from under the bed or behind the cabinets in the kitchens. This is a living, breathing, waking nightmare that they are all trapped in together - nightlights and stories and tucking the blankets up higher will not make it go away.

When his brain catches up to his already speaking mouth, he experiences the type of moment of clarity that he has come to associate with the rush of adrenaline he sometimes gets during the parts of his job that get censored a touch before they are offered up for matrimonial sharing. His daughter is a target. The only way to take the focus off of her is to give them a different target. He needs to provide them with a threat to be dealt with that will take higher precedence than their routine enforcement. It is impulsive; it is only a temporary fix, but he cannot allow his crying child to be manhandled and taken from them.

Then, he realizes. A family is four. The slogan is everywhere. It decorates signs. It appears at the beginning and ending of official messages. It is repeated over and over again in an attempt to ingrain it so far into everyone's thought processes that it will never occur to them to question or disobey or consider other options. A family is four. The words repeat in his head. It is always phrased the same. It is always a family is four. It is never two children only. A family is four.

It is the only chance for a longer lasting solution that he has available to him, and he reaches for it with open hands (or, more literally, with a closed fist) the instant that it occurs to him. A family is four, and there are four Shannons left if he is removed from the picture. He has been a police officer his entire adult life. He knows how policies work. He knows how a standard sentencing runs. This can work. It would never be the plan he would choose if he had other options available to him, but his available options are about as short as the amount of time he has to do something. So, he does. Jim Shannon is a man who will always err on the side of doing.

He quickly finds himself with his hands behind his back being pushed out of the doorway. The last glimpse he sees of his family contains a hurt looking Josh, a confused looking Maddy, a frightened Zoe, and a wife whose hair is curtaining her face as she tries to comfort their youngest and refuses to meet his eyes.

The officer he hit pontificates and rails at him all the way out of the building. Jim does not really hear a word. He is too busy letting his thoughts catch up with all of the spur of the moment actions he has taken. He is too busy deciding that he would not have done anything differently given the same situation even if he had more time to think it through. It worked. That is the part that matters. That is the part that he cares about. The officer is repeating his words from back in the apartment when Jim tunes back in to what he is saying.

The man is right. He will regret this, but it will not be for any of the reasons that he meant when he said the words. He will regret being away from his family. He will regret the way he won't be there for them. He will regret the betrayed look on Josh's face that was the last thing that he saw as he was hustled out of the door. He will regret leaving his wife to manage, care, and provide for their children on her own. He will regret every day that he spends away from them all. He will regret every missed tucking in at night with Zoe, every gushing over something science related (that he tries hard to pretend to understand) with Maddy that he isn't there to witness, and every new song learned on the guitar from Josh that he won't be there to hear. He will regret a great many things he is sure in the days and weeks and months and years to come, but he will never regret the fact that the one member of the Shannon family that had to be taken away from their home today was him and not the little girl in her pajamas still nestled safely in her mother's arms.

He is the doer. He is the protector. He is the one who makes the nightmares go away. This is his place; this is his role. He does not know how to be any other way.