There have only been three moments in all of Donald's hectic and busy 24 years where he could truly say that his heart stopped beating.

Where he felt the world beneath his feet had given way, leaving him to tumble and fall into a bottomless pit of dark and cold and nothingness. A free fall sensation of emptiness and panic. There was nothing stable around him, nothing to stand on and nothing to hold on to. He was left all alone in his breathless grief as reality around him shattered.

The first time it had happened was on his 8th birthday, when little four-year-old Fethry had almost drowned in Granny Coot's pond. He didn't have long to dwell on the sharp numbness that shot through his system like veins of electricity through a stormy sky. He could barely think. Could barely feel. Could barely process what had happened. All he knew was that Fethry was drowning, his heart had stopped beating, and there was loud, white static piercing in his ears.

And then just like that, he was underwater.

Except he didn't know how to swim. None of them did, and he vaguely remembered that as Della's and Gladstone's cries blurred in the distance as he sank farther into the pond. Not like it was important. The only thing that mattered was finding Fethry's shirt collar and hoisting him back up towards the surface. Eventually, he did so, breaking through the murky water for only a brief second before what felt like a billion hands pulled them both out, drenched and fighting for air through chocked coughs and smuggled hugs from their parents.

Della used to retell the story like it was some sort of hero's tale, recounting it like Donald never hesitated to jump into the water to save their cousin. Fethry could barely remember the incident, let alone know what happened while he was seven feet underwater, and Gladstone was too busy hightailing it back to the barn to get the adults.

Only Donald knew the truth. That, even if it only felt like a second, he did hesitate. That impossible fear and shock had overrun his senses. That for the briefest moments, all he could do was stand in abject horror, and try to remember how to get feeling in his fingertips again.

The second time it happened was a moment that burned itself into the deepest and most tender parts of Donald's heart, and it lasted much longer than a few brief, undecided moments.

The day he lost his sister was the day his heart not only stopped, but fractured into a billion impossible pieces. Too broken and too small to ever be able to put back together again.

He had never felt so lost as he did at that moment, so completely and utterly, out of body lost. Those first few months without her all but blurred together like a greyscale watercolor into something mind-numbing, and if he focused just a little bit, for even a second on the world around him, an unbearable load of soul-destroying hurt would stab him in all the places that mattered. His mind. His memories. His heart. A wrecking ball of grief and misery would destroy the last bits of sanity he'd been clinging on to.

He had almost, almost, convinced himself not to feel again. To live out his days without anger, or fear, or love. Pain like losing his better half would never darken itself on his doorstep again if he had just... stopped caring.

But then he had looked into three pairs of the brightest blue he'd ever seen, and instantly that conviction seemed like a distant and out of touch dream.

Because of course, how could he not feel?

How could he not love?

Love was all he had left, the only thing he had to give to his sister's sons. His nephews.

His boys.

The third time Donald's heart stopped beating was when he let the abundant amount of doctors and nurses take one of his boys from his arms, unmoving and breathless, and placed him on the top of a gurney, whisking him away through doors they wouldn't let Donald go pass. The bright fluorescent hospital lights burning at the edges of Donald's vision as the buzz of commotion and inquiring staff around him drowned away into a numbing white noise.

The only thing that he could hear, ringing like sirens in his ears, was the sound of Donald's own beating heart coming to a slow stop, before shattering like glass.

It had been almost a full 36 hours since Gus had driven out of sight with Dewey and Louie strapped comfortably into his old pickup, and Donald wasn't doing any better now than he was then.

Huey was only able to keep down liquids, anything solid or bigger than a pea he'd either throw back up or flat out refused to eat. But even getting him to drink, let alone take some medication, took a heartache and a half to accomplish. Mostly because Donald's will to keep insisting Huey stay hydrated even when the poor kid choked and coughed and cried his eyes out to do just about anything but was getting weaker and weaker with every second.

His temperature had spiked to an uncomfortable fever of 101 around two am that night, and Donald was doing everything in his power to keep Huey, and himself, cool and comfortable and calm. He wasn't coughing as much as he had been, which was good, but that was about the only good thing that had arisen from their situation. His throat was still very swollen, causing his breathing to come out in short, sporadic wheezes that looked just on the safe side of miserably painful.

The hot shower steam sessions didn't seem to do anything but make Huey even fussier and tense, so Donald opted for standing by an open window and letting the cold winter air wash over them instead. Which seemed to do the trick in calming Huey's nerves and quell his coughing and breathing fits.

They couldn't stand in the window for long though, because as if things couldn't get any worse, the blizzard outside was only growing worse with each passing hour. The snowfall that had slowly started as Donald had trecked his way back into his houseboat the day before had now escalated to a full-on gale of a storm.

The moment Donald realized Huey's fever was only going to get worse, Donald didn't hesitate to try and start up his car to take him to the nearest pediatricians office.

But the storm was worse than Donald had previously thought after he found his car buried under a hill of snow taller than himself. Only after he was sure Huey was asleep and ok for his nap, Donald tried to brave the storm and the cold as he did his best to excavate his wagoneer jeep. After what felt like a good half an hour of biting wind, frostbitten fingers and nose and a quick run back to the houseboat to check on Huey, he finally managed to uncover his car from the snow.

But like all the small victories in Donald's life, the fruits of his labor turned sour quickly as what little luck and hope he had left vanished like puffs of heat in the storm outside. He tried, God know's did he try, but his old car, who had been faithful and trustworthy up until now, wouldn't start.

"Please, please start," Donald begged, his eyes shut tight as his head rested against the steering wheel. His hand turning the ignition key continuously only for the engine to give a groaning whine and shutter before turning off again. The corners of Donald's eyes stung as he pleaded with all his might, whispering to no one in particular as he gave the key one last turn. "Please, just let me have this. I just need this one thing. Please. For Huey. Please."

But the car never started. And Donald spent the next 5 minutes, alone and shivering and miserable, punching the dashboard and steering wheel in front of him as he screamed a long list of profanities that would have peeled the paint off of any walls within a five mile radius if not for the blizzard around him muffling any noise not louder than a runaway freight train.

And only after he had shouted his voice hoarse and drummed his balled fists red and throbbing with pain, did he make the slow and defeated walk back towards the houseboat.

Huey had just begun to stir, throwing himself into another shivering breathing fit when Donald had walked through the front door. The 24 year old threw off his layers in almost record speed, discarding them on the kitchen counter without a second thought as he made his way over to where he had Huey camped out on the living room floor.

Picking him up with expert care, Donald settled Huey against his chest and neck. Huey immediately shivered at the sudden skin contact, but fell into it easily, hiding his heated face in the creek of Donald's chilled neck. The contrast of temperatures was almost breathtaking, and for the thousandth time that day, Donald picked up his phone and dialed the hospital just a few blocks down the road from the pier.

And for the thousandth time that day, all he heard was the static of the receiver as the blizzard continued to cut off his phone connection.

Sighing with a patience Donald didn't know how to keep, he placed the phone back down and sank low into the couch, making sure not to jostle Huey as best he could. He didn't have a T.V. Hadn't had one in almost a year since the boys were born. He sold his old one for some extra cash when he had first taken the boys under his care, those dark times when he was still going through his days in a numb, colorless grief.

He had done that with a lot of the things he had once owned. An old set of golf clubs he inherited from his Uncle Goostave that he hardly ever used was sold for a good 30 bucks at the local Pier sale. The set of fine china his mother had brought back from Scottland had helped pay off that first electricity bill. He even parted with some of the random gifts and souvenirs here and there that he had accumulated over the years from friends. He was able to trade away the bowling ball Mickey had gotten him for his 18th birthday for some baby clothes when the triplets had outgrown their preemie infant onesies. The Mexican ceramic bowls and skulls Panchito always brought him whenever he and Jose would visit were sold to an old antique store down the street for a couple of dollars. Even the engraved watch Daisy had given him for their 5-year anniversary when they were still dating helped to finalize the dept he had when he fought for the custody of the boys...

That last one had been harder to give up than the others, they were all hard to give up in their own way, but Donald didn't have a choice. He knew, tried to convince himself, somewhere deep in his subconscious, that his friends and family would understand. He had to do it, he so desperately needed the money.

And for his boys, well, he'd just as easily trade up the entire world.

One of the few luxuries he allowed himself, however, was a small, red, handheld radio, which was practically as old as Donald was. It was a Christmas gift from his father, he couldn't remember which one or how old he was when he got it, but it was one of the best gifts he had ever gotten from the man. Donald remembered staying up late with Della when they were kids, hushed tones and smothered giggles shared under Donald's blanket as they listened to late-night radio hosts serenade them to sleep with songs and stories of the world beyond their front door.

Those memories were dusted in something light, and delicate, and full of warmth. The last remaining touches of Della's presence in his life. Fingerprints left behind of a time when the world seemed so much bigger to the two of them, more vibrant and full of life. Or maybe, that was just because Della was there, right alongside Donald to make it so.

Either way, the radio was something he could never bring himself to part with, and even if he wanted to, the thing was so dinged up and scratched, the red paint fading into something rose colored and grey, that it would hardly be worth a dime to anyone but himself.

So there it sat on the living room table next to the couch. Donald leaned sideways to grab it, Huey whimpering slightly at the movement, and turned it on. He scanned through the channels quietly, the only thing being picked up was static radio waves and the occasional muffled voice that would never stay too long before fuzzing out into snow and noise. After a few solid minutes of searching, he finally found a weather channel that was only partially subdued with static. The man's radio voice was monotoned and boring, but something about it was settling and easy on the ears, unknotting something deep within Donald that made him sleepy and calm.

Donald didn't fall asleep, he wouldn't allow himself that self-indulgent honor, but he did close his eyes and let his mind wander. He was just so, so tired. The stress of it all had been building and building, threatening to burst through any holes Donald left unchecked for too long, and he didn't know how much longer he could keep it up at this rate.

He sighed long and softly, taking in the faint smells of a burnt candle that went out some time ago and Huey's infant medicine.

"It's not fair, is it buddy?" Donald muttered, his eyes still closed as he rubbed Huey's back gently. "It's never been fair for me, I've made my peace with that a long time ago. But why does it have to be unfair for you too?"

Donald didn't usually let his more personal and insecure thoughts roam like they were, but the words kept falling out of his mouth, and Donald didn't have the energy to push them back in again. "It's always been that way. Gladstone's the luckiest guy in the world, but his luck only works for himself. I have to be the unluckiest guy in the world, and yet my bad luck seems to spread to anyone and everyone around me. Like some kind of disease."

He frowned as the thought unhinged something painful and dark in Donald's chest, and he tried not to let his blood pulse through his veins in agitation. "First mom and dad died because I was too stubborn to do as I was told. And then Della disappeared because I wasn't strong enough to protect her when I should have. I pushed Scrooge away because I wasn't good enough and I knew that's what he wanted. I pushed Daisy away because I knew I wasn't good enough and that's what she needed. I can't do anything right and I only bring the people I love around me to ruin."

And something cynical was edging closer to one of Donald's many cracks, threatening to leak through and break the whole wall Donald had built for himself over the years down into a thunderous and chaotic mess of emotions. And he wasn't going to cry, he wasn't, but something heaved deep in his chest as he tried to control his body shuddering in frustration. His voice cracking and picking up speed with every word that pushed itself out of Donald's mouth and out into the raw and hurtful open. "I only bring suffering and misery and just the most rotten luck and it's not fair. It's just not fair! And now you're sick and in pain and you don't deserve this in the slightest and I'm supposed to make sure this never happens to you but I don't- I- I don't know what to do! And I'm useless and helpless and no matter what I do or how hard I try, it never seems to be enough, and it's just not fucking fair-".

Donald froze, something sudden and off-putting catching his senses as he stopped rubbing Huey's back and pulled the small child off his chest.

And just like that, the world seemed to freeze as all the blood drained from Donald's body in a matter of milliseconds. That numbing sensation trickling back into his nerves and shutting down his whole system.

Huey laid there in Donald's arms, his lips blushing a muted blue compared to the paleness of his skin that was cold and clammy to the touch. And-

And oh my god, how could Donald possibly not notice just how shallow Huey's breathing had gotten and how limp his already impossibly small body had gotten and-

And like a dam bursting, Donald's world exploded into something panic-filled and scared.

Without a second thought, Donald wrapped Huey in all the blankets he had in immediate reach, jumped into his boots haphazardly, not bothering to lace them up or even throw on a jacket for himself as he threw open the front door and raced out into the blizzard.

As one track minded as he was at that very moment, Donald couldn't help but notice how cold it was.

When it had gotten dark, Donald didn't care to register, but the winter winds blowing an uncomfortable amount of snow and ice into his face was almost deterring as Donald ran as fast as his legs would carry him through the thick, several feet high snow piled on the pier dock.

Almost.

Because Donald had always been known for his stubborn nature, and at that moment, there wasn't a force on this earth that could stop him now.

Because Huey wasn't breathing, and he couldn't get his car to work and the phone lines were down so he couldn't call for an ambulance and Donald felt the tears freeze harshly at the corners of his eyes because he didn't know what he was doing.

But he could run. He could run forward. So hard and so fast that his lungs felt like they were on fire as his breath felt like it was ripped from his lungs everytime he breathed.

But he kept running.

Snow stuck to his hair and drenched his shirt and jeans almost immediately, his fingertips, ears, and nose feeling like they could fall off from the biting cold as the wind continued to blow snow into his face, making it almost impossible to see a few inches in front of him.

But he kept running.

Cause the hospital was only a few blocks away, and his arms felt like secured iron bars, tucking the bundle of blankets containing the most precious thing Donald has ever been blessed with in his miserable life safely to his chest, so he kept running.

And he kept running even after he had lost all feeling in his legs a few yards back from the cutting cold snow. He kept running even after he had lost one of his boots in a particularly deep snow bank. He kept running even after he had slid on a piece of ice and, using his elbows and knees to brace the fall so that he wouldn't land on Huey or subject the baby to the cold, cut open major gashes against his arms and legs.

And he would have kept running too, if he hadn't had been nearly run over by a car that seemed to come out of nowhere. Skidding to a halt in front of him, Donald stopped, wide-eyed and breathless, as the headlights blinded him from seeing anything other than the black of the windshield in front of him.

As far as he could tell, no one in their right mind would be driving out on a night like this, when the weather was just too bad and the roads were too slick to hold any traction what so ever. He hadn't seen anyone thus far anyway, or at least, if they were there, Donald didn't register them in his blinding panic. Whatever the case, it didn't matter now, because Donald would take any chance he could grab onto as he ran to the passenger side of the car and rapped violently on the window.

"Please! You gotta help me-," was all Donald was able to get out before the passenger door flew open and, to Donald's swelling heart and wild relief, he was greeted with unmistakable golden hair, curled perfectly under a snow cap and an unforgettable voice that shot through the dark like a light at the end of the tunnel.

"Donald? Is that you? Jesus, what the hell are you doing?" Gladstone asked, his face a mixture of confusion and unease as he scanned Donald from top to bottom with those iridescent green eyes that blazed like greek fire. "Why are you out so late? And without a jacket? And missing a shoe? And Christ- are you bleeding-"

"Take me to the hospital, now!" Donald all but shouted as he jumped into the passenger seat, ignoring Gladstone's look of surprise at the interruption and slamming the door behind him. "Now! Gladstone! Floor it!"

And maybe it was the shrillness in Donald's voice on the verge of breaking, or the way he was shaking with a convulsion that screamed more than he was just cold. Whatever it was, it did the trick, because just like that, they were racing as fast as the car would go with the icy roads barely giving them any traction to work with.

But if anyone could drive, even if it was just pointed sliding and dodging other parked cars and street lamps, in a blizzard this bad, it was stupid lucky Gladstone Gander.

"Donnie, talk to me, what's wrong?" Gladstone asked, turning the steering wheel furiously this way and that in order to keep straight while skidding on the black ice. "What the hell were you doing-"

"Huey's not breathing," Donald shot out, hysteria getting the better of him as he uncoiled the wrap of blankets on his lap to reveal the baby in question. Huey's cheeks were flushed a pale pink from the cold, as he lay there, still and unmoving, his eyes closed and his mouth slightly open. Donald felt his stomach drop to his feet as he quickly put his hands against his nephew's back, straightening it out as best he could to open Huey's airways as much as possible.

He didn't know CPR. God, why the fuck didn't he know CPR. Donald's head swam with all the useless information he had combed through from all those parenting books that were still sitting strewn across his living room floor and kitchen table. He knew what to do when a toddler through a fit. He knew what speaking patterns to use in order to get his boys to understand the concept of language. He knew what medicine worked best for certain types of stomach aches.

But he didn't know, didn't even occur to him what to do if one of them was choking. He'd baby proof the house long before the triplets were even born. It was safe to assume he wouldn't ever have to learn if he just kept a visual eye on every step the boys ever took.

But of course, things were never that simple, and now look where Donald's assumptions had landed him. Pleading in the passenger seat of his cousin's car as he tried desperately to keep his nephew from turning blue.

"Huey sweetheart, please," Donald begged, sharp, wet tears pooling from his eyes as he cradled the infant in his arms. Donald barely registered Gladstone peering into his lap and whisper a quiet 'Oh my God,' before cementing the gas pedal to the floor with his shoe, sending their car hurtling forward with new found purpose. "Just a little further buddy, please, just, hold on for me, ok?"

Donald's vision was getting blurry now, the salty teardrops collecting on the patch of blanket next to Huey's head as they rolled down his frosted cheeks. He couldn't stop them from falling, though, to be honest, he didn't really try to, to begin with. If this was any other situation, literally any other, he knew he'd never hear the end of it from Gladstone.

But his cousin was keeping all thoughts and concerns quietly to himself, his usual leaf green eyes turn sharp and radioactive as they kept focused on the road before him. His knuckles turned almost as white as the snow around them as he gripped the steering wheel, muttering a few incoherent things under his breathe that Donald barely cared to decipher.

Because Donald found himself in an odd state of absolute panic, where his heart beat turned slow and rhythmic and his breathing almost as shallow as Huey's. And for some reason, Donald became absolutely ignorant in all the things that mattered and instead, his attention and senses rose to fixate on the smallest of details.

He noticed how he was still so, so cold, despite Gladstone having the heat turned up on full blast, and how he couldn't tell which foot was missing a shoe because they both felt frozen and numb. He noticed the faint sound of jazz music coming from Gladstone's cd player, a bouncy and uplifting tune, despite the raised tension in the space between them. He noticed how he had been breathing through his mouth, heaving and hiccuping as he cried because his nose was too stuffed up.

He also noticed the way Huey's hair seemed to curl and puff out unruly like on his forehead, unlike his brothers who had more straightened hair. He also had a freckle under his right eye that Donald had never noticed before, but now seemed transfixed on. And that he had a nose that matched Donald's, slightly pointed, and round at the very tip, like a little button.

Most importantly though, he noticed just how truly small Huey was, cradled perfectly in the folds of Donald's arms.

The boys had been born 2 months prematurely, and of course, Donald had always known this. But there was something about this moment that made Donald really take to heart what that meant.

They were just so small. And tiny. And helpless. Huey, even at the ripe young age of one, was still all too entirely, almost unreasonably, small for his age group.

And yet Donald had to wonder, how something so small could take up such a big space in his life. How Donald's whole world, revolved around the smallest pinky he had ever seen. His heart, all of it, despite its cracks and breaks and holes, belonged fully to three little people that could somehow hold whole galaxies in their eyes and Donald's love for them only grew with each passing second they were with him.

With all this love, Donald couldn't even begin to process what would happen if suddenly one of them weren't in his life anymore.

And before the thought even occurred to him, Gladstone exhaled a sharp 'There it is,' that pulled Donald's attention away from his whole world that lay in his hands.

And there it was indeed, standing tall and bright and flashing red against the blacked night sky, was the hospital, and all of the feeling and panic and realization crashed into Donald like a freight train.

He didn't even bother to wait till Gladstone had pulled into the unloading zone as he threw himself out of the moving car, much to Gladstone's exclaimed protests, leaving the blankets behind in the front seat as he held Huey close to his chest and ran towards the entrance.

"Help!" Was all Donald could muster himself to shout as he burst through the sliding glass doors, the wind from outside blowing a small explosion of snow behind him, making his entrance even more startling and eye-catching as Donald claimed the attention of everyone in the waiting room.

"Sir, what seems to be th-", a woman at the front desk started, standing up to get a better look, but Donald didn't finish as he surged forward, words tumbling out as clumsily and flushed as Donald felt.

"My kid he- help, he can't breathe- croup, I think, but please, please you have to help him, please." And Donald was hiccuping through the words, tears etching themselves like rivers into Donald's cheeks. He didn't register when a group of nurses had surrounded him, or when Gladstone had come to stand behind him, but he kept pleading, eyes not daring to tear away from Huey in his shaking arms. "Please, please help him."

And before Donald could do anything else, a woman had already snatched Huey from his arms, laying him on a gurney that might as well as materialized beside her, the way Donald perceived it, and calling forth a Doctor that had come rushing from one of the entrances that came lead deeper into the hospital.

And then they were all speaking words, rushed and quizzical and demanding that sent Donald's already fried nerves over the edge, his heartbeat pounding like a roaring river in his ears.

Donald didn't catch a whole lot of what they were saying, but someone had sent the word 'surgery' through the air, and then the gurney holding the most important thing in Donald's life was suddenly rushed away from him, towards the very doors the Doctor from earlier had come through.

"Wait, where are you taking him, wait-" Donald began asking, his feet finding their second surge of adrenaline as he was about to take a step towards them when a nurse placed a hand out to stop him.

"Sir, I'm gonna need you to come with me, you appear to be experiencing some frostbite on your-"

"Where are you taking him? Let me go with him, please, let me be with him. I have to be with him," Donald ignored the nurse as he pushed past her and walked towards where they were rushing Huey too. He was only a few feet away. He had to stay with him. He couldn't leave him now. Huey needed him. Why couldn't they see that? He needed to be with Huey. If he wasn't there to protect him, if he wasn't there-

"Sir, please calm down. I assure you he will be in great care, but we need to treat your cuts and-," the nurse tried to stop him again, this time stepping in front of him. Donald felt a slight pull to the back of his shirt and a few hands on his arms, preparing to hold him back if need be, and Donald would have pushed forward, would have fought and made a break for it towards Huey-

But Huey was now through the swinging doors and out of Donald's sight, the backs of the doctors' and nurses' heads fading through the circular windows in the doors and something inside Donald just broke.

Donald immediately felt the energy in his legs give out, crashing to the floor in an exhausted heap as he continued to stare in the direction they had taken Huey in. "Please, please, I have to be with him, please."

Donald had come to terms that he brought bad luck with him wherever he went and upon anyone who crossed his path. But only now was he slowly starting to piece together that the worst of luck, the worst of things that happened to the people he cared about, happened when he wasn't with them.

He was supposed to be with his parents the night they died. But he wasn't.

He was supposed to be with Della the day she disappeared.

But he wasn't.

And now Huey was out of his sight, out of his reach. And as Donald's heart felt cold and muted against the now busy background of waiting room since their arrival, he hoped, and prayed, and begged, that this time-

Just this once-

His bad luck would only affect him.

And like glass, his heart felt like it had shattered, and his world went cold and black.