COVID-19 spared the child.

A bullet from his father’s gun took him.

As unpredictable as any hospital at any time of any year, on this day in this year of the virus, the emergency room pulsed with life-and-death decisions. Nurses moved fast, dead set on saving lives. Doctors focused on the crisis at hand, one-after-another that swept into curtained cubicles like hot wind from a summer storm. Security guards stood with hand-held radios at the ready, waiting to call for back-up when bereaved relatives lost control.

In the midst of it all, as the angel of death hovered, a team of caregivers rushed to the child with the gunshot-induced head wound.

Because of pandemic panic in the city, paramedics refused to allow either parent to ride along with their son. Police who quickly arrived at the scene restrained Jimmy, one of their own who co-workers knew as a hothead even under cool conditions. Jimmy sprinted seven blocks to the hospital. Chanise drove her VW, alone, trying to keep her eyes tear-free and on the road, her hands steady on the wheel. Mahlik, their three-year old, arrived by ambulance.

 “Another traumatic brain injury,” said an EMT.

Six hours later, a doctor walked into the family lounge.

He’s stable, she said.

Blurry after dozing in a chair, Jimmy stumbled to his feet.

What’s that mean?

He’s alive.

Thank God, Chanise said.

The doctor, a woman of Indian descent, spoke mostly to her.

The bullet pierced the right frontal lobe tip and advanced to the forehead over the base of the child’s skull. For the most part, clinical damage seems minimal. The projectile bypassed vital brain tissue and vascular structure.

Jimmy stood with balled fists at his side.

What’s that mean in English?

Chanise snapped her head in Jimmy’s direction.

Your son is alive, the doctor said.

For now, Jimmy said.

Yes, she said, for now.

Two hours later Chanise spoke to Jimmy for the first time. She sat across the room with her legs curled beneath her on a fake leather sofa. Her voice pierced the cold silence. Her eyes burned.

How many times have I told you not to put your gun on top of the refrigerator?

Don’t start.

So many that I forgot it was there. So many I walked out of the kitchen without thinking when you yelled to help find your track suit. So many I left Mahlik alone with your weapon.

I’m a cop. I’m black. People hate black cops. I need a gun close at all times

I’m a cop, too. I’m Puerto Rican. Men hate women. I keep my firearm in a gun safe at home.

I got to get to a gun wherever I am.

Your guns are all over the house, Jimmy, at least one in every room. Loaded. Ready to fire.

He shouldn’t have been climbing on the counter.

I knew you’d say that.

You should have been watching him.

I was too busy watching you.

Jimmy glared.

You’re carrying a gun now, aren’t you?

Crime never sleeps.

When this is over I’m leaving.

You’re leaving Mahlik and me?

No, just you. Mahlik will already be gone.