Winnie wearily made her way up the porch. It had been a long day; longer than most. The only thing standing between her and her comfortable and feminine home was one last sweep through this house, making sure she had all her things. She feared if she left a single dish here, it would never be seen again. She snuffed at the thought that she could always hire her son and that bohemian-ragamuffin-psychic to find her Grandmother's casserole dish. Well, hiring was an overstatement. She would insist that the job be done pro-bono to make up for all the anguish that boy had caused her through the years, which wouldn't even touch the countless broken windows, appliances and –Good Lord Almighty- never ending doctor bills.

Wiping her feet on the worn sisal rug, she reached for the screen door as she pulled her shawl tighter around her neck. The night was unseasonably cool. Still, it had been a pleasant break from the recent oppressive heat. It would likely be another scorcher tomorrow, so she would try and absorb as much of the coolness that she could stand – which apparently wasn't much. Her wandering mind was just another casualty from the length of the day. Spending a day with this family always taxed her energy; yet another reason why these occurrences were so rare and only due to her persistent Burton.

She made her way through the darkened kitchen. It was unfamiliar to her and she didn't feel like searching for a light switch. There was enough light filtering through the window to allow her to make her way. Quickly, she began the process of collecting her items. Thankfully, her host was considerate; all of her serving dishes were carefully washed and dried. It would almost be a shame to rewash them when she got back home. She had learned long ago that men never washed dishes to her standards. Maybe she would just do them tomorrow after getting a full night's sleep.

Now all I need is my purse and we can leave this…cave.

So focused on her task, she was startled when she walked in the living room to discover the younger Spencer sprawled out on the couch. She stopped suddenly and waited for a few moments. When it became obvious that the young man was dead to the world, she released the breath she didn't even realize she had been holding. Willing her heart rate back to normal, she continued through the room with a growing sense of disgust.

"Lazy, good for nothing, troublemaker…" Without an audience to quell polite inhibition the insults rolled off her tongue in a muttered litany, each one growing stronger than the next.

The boys had left just before the show about a half an hour before with some flimsy excuse. Thankfully when the fireworks began, they had all been spared from more uncomfortable small talk - as if she hadn't had enough of that tonight. Nevertheless, she would still have words with Burton later.

She snatched her abandoned purse from the coffee table and strongly resisted the urge to check its contents…just in case. Priding herself in her restraint, she turned around to retrace her steps back to the kitchen. For the second time in as many minutes she once again found herself glued to the floor, not paused from a mild startle as before, but frozen in unadulterated terror.

The purse slipped from her numb fingers, hitting the hardwood floor with a hollow thud. Her lipstick case tumbled out and rolled under the end table, ignored.

Her voice was frozen. She had tried desperately to scream. Her mouth was open. There was air being directed over vibrating vocal chords, but no volume was produced – serving to only fuel her panic. She had to be able to scream; she simply had to. Her thoughts stilled as she frantically searched for a word, any word that would bring help. One word was all she needed. Any word would do. Just one would unlock her tongue from the roof of her mouth and act as the catalyst to restore her to movement. A picture flashed in her mind's eye…a man…with a name. Rational thought was starting to return to her control. She had to get control, her son depended on it!

"BIIIIILLLLL!"

Even as she progressed towards hyperventilation and found her vision tunneling her eyes never left the sight in front of her. The tears now flowed freely, even though her feet betrayed her, as she stared at the sight of her son. Her precious Burton lay slouched in the recliner, hidden in the dark corner. Blood trailed from his hairline, down the side of his face, streaking his neck until being absorbed into the collar of his navy blue polo.

She couldn't tell if he was breathing; she wasn't sure she had the courage to check. As long as she wasn't sure, there was a possibility he was still alive.

The men must have heard the panic in her voice as they came storming through the door.

"What is it?!"

Vocalization, again, left her. All she could do was point to the chair containing the unconscious, oh Lord – please let him only be unconscious, body of her son.

"Oh my…" two long steps and her husband was by his side.

Out of the corner of her eye, she barely registered Henry looking the other direction before he moved out of her field of vision. She didn't have room to worry about what had caught his attention. Nothing else mattered than the scene before her.

"Is he…alive?" The last word was cut off in a choked whisper, unable to complete the thought she gave in to her tears.

"He's breathing, that's all I know." Bill's concerned voice vibrated through her. He was breathing. He is breathing. He is alive.

"I think he's coming round!"

The invisible bonds that held her fast snapped. She found herself hurtling towards the chair. The motion made her dizzy, almost as if she were catapulted from her former location. Dropping down to her knees, she took his face in her hands, giving him the gentlest of shakes – willing him to wake faster.

"Burton, can you hear me?"

She tried to listen closely, but there was too much noise. It angered her. Her son was hurt while that…that…vagabond just lounged around, napping the night away. She whipped her head around and prepared herself to speak her mind and found herself, again, speechless and confused.

The sight before her just didn't track. Henry Spencer knelt by the couch; one hand on his son's forehead, the other on his chest shaking gently.

"Shawn?"

Henry's heart rate tripled from the second Winnie's scream echoed across the front lawn. Years of conditioning had him reaching for the phantom holster at his side, even as he raced towards the house. He paused next to the door, back to the house, the briefest of hesitations to assess the situation before moving in. Bill Guster had already stormed in after his wife in typical civilian manner. Shaking his head in frustration at the rash maneuver, Henry could only follow his path with the hope of taking in as much as he could before the proverbial bull could trample the china shop of evidence.

Upon his entrance into the doorway of the darkened living room, he saw nothing unusual. Shawn stretched out on his couch wasn't, in and of itself, unusual. Entering the room further, he was able to turn around and take in the sight that had sent Winnie into hysterics. Gus, his son's adopted brother lay in Henry's own recliner bleeding rather heavily from a head wound. Confusion - shock - anger - warring emotions vied for dominance, all trying to push through the same doorway and accomplishing nothing but jarred shoulders. He had known Gus for a very long time – long enough to become rather attached to the young man. Realization settled into his gut, overwhelming him with dizzying nausea. He quickly left the young man in the care of his parents and made it to the couch in two long strides.

A quick hand to the forehead confirmed the absence of fever. Henry then placed a hand on his chest, giving a gentle shake.

"Shawn, come on. Wake up kiddo."

His training never prepared him for this. No amount of academy provided training could prepare a parent for walking into their home to the scene revealed to him now. His son was most definitely not sleeping. No way could even a world champion sleeper like Shawn, maintain a deep REM cycle with this commotion. Unlike Gus, he had no obvious wounds to explain his lack of awareness. The dim light didn't afford Henry the luxury of checking his pupils. He didn't dare leave his son's side until he had a semblance of a clue just to track down one of the multitudes of penlights he had stashed around his house, just in case. Depending on doing things the old fashioned way, he took Shawn's head gently in his hands as he felt all around his son's skull. Finding no obvious bumps or scrapes that would give rise to an explanation, Henry sat back on his heels once again as he gave himself another moment to think.

"Alright Pal, fun's over. Time to wake up." He didn't even care if Shawn picked up on the concern in his voice and decided to wake up right now and poke fun at his old man. Rather, he would certainly welcome it as the one thing – the only thing - that would erase the growing dread that threatened to give rise to complete panic.

Frustrated, and well past worried, Henry ran a hand over his close cropped scalp as struggled to find the missing piece to the puzzle. He performed another visual scan of his son's body.

He's breathing…good.

No head wound.

No lumps.

No bumps.

No consciousness.

No visual marks anywhere…

"That's your problem, Shawn. You have to broaden your vision. You have to look at the outskirts of the case."

"What does that even mean? Look at the 'outskirts' of the case…"

"Sometimes, you have to turn something upside down to view it right side up. And there's your prize."

Henry chided himself even as he hastily reaching forward. He gingerly reached for Shawn's left shoulder, just barely edged over the couch cushion. Bending sideways, he didn't even have to lift the shoulder far before the darkened stain seeping through the couch cushions made itself clear, even in the dim glow of the outside street light.

"Oh God, kid…"