Chapter 4

As the two men hit the ground, Steve felt a searing pain explode through his abdomen, as the impact caused the gun to fire. NO! his mind screamed, as he landed helplessly on top of his father, a blazing anger at his own carelessness and the resulting disaster bursting through his brain as darkness overtook him.

Mark was temporarily stunned as Steve's weight bore him forcefully to the ground. He was only out a brief moment, however; and he rolled out from under his son's body, still dazed and spaced out from the drug. Seeing Steve lying motionless on the ground, he tried to shake him awake, his drug-fogged mind failing to comprehend the true nature of the situation until he rolled Steve on his back and saw the blood staining his shirt. Blood. Vaguely, Mark was aware that blood soaking through his son's shirt was cause for alarm, but he couldn't think clearly enough to determine what he should do. But the desire to do something to help his son was strong enough to partially penetrate the mental haze in which he was operating. Help. That was it. He would go get help. Unsteadily patting his son and promising to return shortly, Mark turned away with the intention of finding help. Unfortunately, his mind and gait equally unsteady from the effects of the drug, his erratic wanderings brought him too close to the edge of the drop-off, and he tumbled helplessly down the steep slope, fetching up against a bush at the edge of the lake, where he lay unconscious.

Steve returned to consciousness, aware of a fiery pain in his abdomen and the brightness of the sunlight against his eyes. He squinted against the light and turned his head to take in his surroundings. Momentarily confused at the sight of the woods around him, the sudden return of memory brought an instant sharpening of focus and stab of alarm. He looked around for his father, the alarm intensifying at his failure to see him. He rolled painfully onto his side, automatically pressing his hand hard against the bullet wound, as he tried to get a better view of the surrounding area.

"Dad?" he called urgently, anxiety sharpening the weakness of his voice. There was no response, and still no sign of Mark. Fear sliced through him, as painful as the burning of the bullet wound. If his father had wandered off and left him here, he must still be in a dangerously confused state of mind. Steve thought of the gun and the possibility of his father shooting himself with it, of the dangerous proximity of the drop-off to the lake. The visions of his father lying bleeding somewhere in the woods or drowning in the lake, too drugged to save himself, impelled him to his knees, struggling to get to his feet to search for him. He managed to drag himself only a pace or two, however, before collapsing. "Dad." It was a groan of desperation and despair, as he realized that he was too weak to get anywhere on his own; he was too badly wounded and had already lost too much blood. He forced his rapidly clouding brain to think, refusing to accept that there was nothing he could do to help either his father or himself. Of course, he could call for help. Cursing his own mental slowness, he pulled his cell phone from his pocket and dialed the operator.

"I need help," he gasped painfully as he heard the operator respond. "I've been shot…" He heard the woman on the other end of the line asking about his location, and struggled to hold onto consciousness long enough to provide the information. He managed to give the address of the cabin and indicate that he was in the woods behind it, before he succumbed to the weakness that was rapidly overwhelming him. As he slipped again into unconsciousness, his last sensation was anguish at his failure to resolve the situation without harm. I'm sorry, Dad, he thought, desperately hoping his father would be all right; I'm so sorry… Then the blackness overcame him once more.