Of all the questions he'd ever heard asked by any person over the age of ten, there was one that stuck out as being phenomenally more stupid than most others. "Does it hurt to get shot?"

It was difficult to simply say yes without wanting to add additional comments. It did hurt to get shot...a helluva a lot. It was just over a week since he'd been transferred from intensive care and although he had recovered some strength, the pain had not seemed to lessen at all. He kept getting scolded for breathing too shallow and causing his oxygen levels to drop. But it hurt to breathe deeply, and he was getting tired of being told to stop being difficult. He wasn't intentionally being difficult at the moment. He was just trying to minimize his pain.

And then there was Eames...she loved to make him laugh. She always said she was sorry, but she didn't mean it. Whoever said laughter was the best medicine had obviously never gotten shot in the chest. And Eames was good at making him laugh. Yeah, it hurt to get shot.

He still wasn't quite sure how it had happened, and no one was able to explain it to him, either. They got out of the SUV and Eames went after the gunman. She was closer and had already drawn. He put himself between the gunman and the target, a child of about six. They later learned it was his son, and this was his way of resolving a difficult custody dispute. That dispute was now over...permanently, thanks to the gunman's rage, frustration and poor judgment, and his partner's deadly aim. When dealing with a drawn gun and a threat to an innocent party, Eames took no chances. There was no way to go back and 'unshoot' a bullet from a little boy's body.

There were two major contributing factors that led to his getting shot. First, he placed himself between an unstable man brandishing a loaded weapon and the target of his rage. But that was an acceptable risk, that was his job. The other factor was nothing more than pure, stupid, bad luck. He'd tried to recreate the shooting in his mind, but he couldn't figure it out and he only gave himself a headache trying.

The suspect got off three shots in rapid succession before Eames was able to take him out. Two of those shots were aimed at his son, and Goren had taken both of them for the child. One hit his vest, leaving a nasty bruise and two fractured ribs below his left collarbone. The other bullet somehow got past the vest under his right arm, tore through his chest and hit the inside of the vest just to the right of his sternum between ribs three and four, missing his heart by centimeters. Had the bullet entered under his left arm and followed a similar path, it would have hit his heart and killed him. Deakins told him he'd never seen a vest stop a bullet from the inside. That had not made him feel any better.

The suspect's attention was drawn from the boy and his protector by Eames' shout and his third shot was aimed at her, but it went wide while her aim was true. By that time, though, Goren was on the ground, his side already saturated with blood. He remembered feeling the impact of both bullets, but he did not feel any pain. The entire experience was very surreal and unlike any other time he'd been shot. He fell toward the ground, but he didn't remember stopping when he hit it. He just remembered falling. Voices filled the air, but he didn't recognize any of them, except Eames'. She was yelling, "We have an officer down! Send a bus right away!"

Mingled with the voices, he heard the soft whimpering of the little boy near him. A thick fog had already enveloped his brain and he was having a hard time seeing anything more than shadows. He reached his hand toward the sound of the crying. Two small hands grasped his larger one and held tight as the child scrambled close to his body for comfort and protection. That he remembered, feeling the pressure of the frightened boy's little body against his and the small fingers pressed firmly into his hand. As darkness covered him like a blanket, he became aware of a voice telling him to hang on, and he remembered wondering what he was supposed to hang on to. But he knew the voice, and she sounded scared. He reached his free hand toward her, coming into contact with her leg and feeling comfort as she wrapped her hand around his. Her other hand felt cool on his face as she gently stroked his cheek and his forehead. She was talking softly to him, but the fog in his brain wouldn't allow it to translate her words. Still, he felt reassured by her presence, as he always did. He wanted to say something to her, but his voice wouldn't work. When he tried to clear his throat, he was surprised to taste blood. Feeling short of breath, he tried to draw in more air to fill his lungs, but he couldn't. In fact, breathing was becoming more and more of an effort that he was feeling less and less inclined to make. By the time the ambulance arrived, the velvet darkness around him was complete. He knew nothing more until he woke up in intensive care five days later. That was when the pain hit him, hard. And when it began to compromise his breathing, they'd knocked him back out with medication until he was strong enough to handle the pain and still be able to breathe.

When he woke again, he was still in intensive care, and Eames was there. His head felt foggy, but he was glad to see her, glad that she was all right. At that point, he didn't remember anything about the shooting except that there had been a shooting. The pain in his body told him he'd been shot, but he was confused about that. He knew he'd been vested, so how had that happened? It was a question that remained unanswered.