[This is a jump forward. Andrew, looking for clues as to the whereabouts of his mother has discovered a gun at the bottom of her wardrobe. In a previous chapter he’s taken the weapon to school to show his friends and ask their advice, when they point out the enormity what he’s done. There’s a brief encounter with the school bullies on the way home, so it takes him longer than expected, but he returns there meaning to return the gun before anyone realises that it’s missing. Unfortunately he falls asleep before he can do this. This is where the story picks up…]

He wakes in a panic.

The gun is no longer on the table, just the screwed up pink tissue paper the weapon had been wrapped in. The box has fallen on it’s side and is lying on the floor.

There’s also someone upstairs.

Coming to his senses, he realises that he’d fallen asleep and his dad must have taken the gun away.

Andrew sees his father in the bathroom, stripped to his waist, holding onto the bathroom sink. His back a vibrant kaleidoscope of weeping wounds. There's a pair of bloody needle noised pliers in his hand, which he waves through running water as nonchalantly as if he were washing whiskers from a razor.

"Is that what I think it is?" Andrew motions to the round pellets nestled beneath the water in the sink. Thin pink stains rise and swirl with eddies within the water.

His dad turns, face ashen, lips thin bloodless lines. "That depends on what you think it is."

"Shotgun pellets."

He coughs weakly, "yeah, your thinking's correct."

Andrew leans against the bathroom door, not willing to cross the threshold. He watches his dad grip the pedestal, not quite holding himself up, but not really standing on his own. Andrew can feel the steam from the room gently billow onto the cooler landing. The difference in temperature and humidity prickles his face.

"When did it happen?"

"Last night.”

Andrew's face drops and the corner of his mouth twitches, "but that was hours ago."

"Didn't realise that it had gone through my body armour. Finished my shift and came home. Wasn’t until I saw the stain on the car seat that I realised that I'd been tagged."

"Does it hurt?"

"A little bit now," his dad admits. "Looks a lot worse than it is. They barely scratched the skin, it’s bruising mostly."

Except that Andrew sees that he has been gouging a couple of pellets out with the pliers, half crescent indentations either side of the holes in his father’s back. His dad bends forwards, flexing his shoulders and pushing his spine out, there is a ping-ping rattle as a couple of shot bounce off the floorboards. More are pushed to the surface of his skin; dark metal filled boils.

"Would you mind?" his dad asks.

"What do you want me to do?"

"Grab that towel and brush down across my back when I say."

Andrew does so. The first couple of wipes the towel brushes away scabs and congealed blood. Then more shot fall to the floor.

They work for an hour, in near silence, only the occasional grunt of pain, or the click of metal against metal as Andrew manipulates the pliers. His father gently reaches around his back, and palpates each wound, tapping next to it if there is a pellet that needs removing. At first Andrew is tentative, gentle, using the tool as though they were tweezers. By the end, he's gouging wide and deep, moving from wound to wound in quick rapid succession.

He's been focused on the minutiae. When he takes a step back his hands are slick with blood.

He works from the top left and traversed the wounds methodically, moving as through reading a book.

Where he started the wounds are now less pronounced, the ragged edges already look pink and - could it even be possible? Healing?

"Thanks" his dad says, putting his shirt on again, hiding the ruin of back.

"Are... are you going to be okay."

David smiles, face paper white. "Yeah, thanks to you, bud."

"Do you need to see a doctor?"

"No, it looks a lot worse that it is. Big shaving nicks. Honest."

"Dad..."

"I'll be fine." Reassuring now, his voice strong, but then it had never wavered at any point so far.

"You sure."

"Yeah, kiddo." He'd not heard his father talk to him like that since he was five. It is in his father's voice, the dismissive tone, glossing over the truth for a more acceptable version. "If it doesn't heal in a couple of days. I'll see someone. Besides, I couldn’t afford the increase in health insurance premiums if I make a claim. It’ll costs me a fortune to see a doctor. Maybe not now, but later."

Andrew knows that it was said to put his mind at rest, but already what if the real reason that his dad isn't seeing a doctor is because they can't afford it. If they can barely afford to keep food in the cupboards after paying the landlord rent, then how could they afford anything else? Sure his dad has a health policy, but he’s heard him complain before that it’s only really worth it if he dies. He feels like crying. First his mum goes, vanishes one night, and now this.

"Hey, hey hey. Come on now." His dad gently lifts his chin so they look eye to eye. "I'm fine, I'm feeling much better already. You can check tomorrow, it’ll just be scratches."

Andrew nods. Of course they're not scratches, he knows that, but still says nothing. He listens to the strength in his father’s voice and accepts the lie.