At first Dakota thought she was hearing fireworks. A series of loud bangs and the echoes that followed tore her out of a deep sleep. She awoke gasping for breath, searching around the darkened bedroom wondering where she was. It took a few seconds for her to remember that she was in her childhood bedroom at her father’s estate. It was still decorated as if her teenage self were going to come in and flop onto the bed, movie posters and pop star head shots strung up on the walls, pictures of her from dances and proms lining the shelves. Awards and prizes hung prominently over her desk. She wondered who was setting off fireworks and why, and then suddenly there were more bangs and the sound of glass shattering. It was then that Dakota Kane realized it wasn’t fireworks.

 

She scrambled for her cell phone charging on her nightstand and dialed 911.

 

“911, what’s your emergency,” said the overly-calm voice on the other end.

 

“Yes, hello? I think someone’s shooting at my house,” Dakota whispered into the phone as the sound of another blast of bullets filled the air. Then, a roaring sound as an engine somewhere outside picked up speed and peeled out of the driveway. “We’re at 227 Evergreen Terrace, there’s a gate, but we never shut it.”

 

“The police have been notified and are on their way. Is anyone injured?” the voice asked.

 

“Dad!” Dakota whispered. Her father’s room was on the other side of the house. When Dakota had been twelve she had demanded a room in the west wing of the house. As a typical teenager she had wanted to be as far away from her parents as possible while still having them close by in case anything went bump in the night. And now she realized that decision may have saved her life, and doomed her father. Dakota threw the blankets off the bed; she had to go and check on him. It was impossible that something had happened to him. He had to be fine; he had to be okay. Her father was her rock. He was a fixed thing in the universe, always strong and healthy, always there. But when she stood, her knees literally buckled, every part of her shaking and shuddering uncontrollably. She wanted to cry and scream and crawl back under the covers. But she knew she couldn’t. She had to go and make sure her father was all right. She could stand, and if she could stand, she could walk, and if she could walk, she would find her father.

 

Wearing an old high school t-shirt for the Fighting Blue Jays and matching sweatpants, Dakota tiptoed to her door and slowly pulled it open, wincing as if she expected some monster to come flying in. She didn’t hear any noises from outside, so she stuck her head out past the doorway and looked up and down the hallway. Everything was dark and silent. She cursed herself for not turning on the alarm system or closing the gate to the driveway before bed. Back when her mom was still alive, they had always made sure the security system was set, but nothing had ever happened and so they became lax, and look what happened.

 

“Ma’am, I have to ask that you stay where you are until the police have secured the area. Officers are less than five minutes away.” Dakota hadn’t forgotten about the emergency operator; she still held the phone near her ear. The woman’s voice was a reminder that the world was still out there. There were still people who were coming, who were going to save them. But Dakota couldn’t wait.

 

“I have to check on my father,” Dakota whispered into the phone as she tiptoed out into the hallway and made her way the east wing of the house. It was two in the morning and pitch black. All of the lights inside the house were off and she was too scared to turn them on, aware that it might alert someone to her presence. As she made her way silently down the hallway she only had the light of the moon guiding her. The pale, otherworldly light cast strange shadows in front of Dakota that made her jump until her eyes adjusted.

 

“Dad!” she whispered as loudly as possibly, but heard nothing in response. The house was utterly silent. Was anyone still inside? Was whoever had just fired all of those guns lurking around somewhere, waiting for her, waiting for their chance to strike? “Dad!” She called out again. This time louder, this time it was a real shout. But she was met with only silence. Whoever had shot at their house had left, but where was her father. Had they kidnapped him?

 

She began to run, flat out run, down the hallway, ignoring the emergency operator who was ordering her to go find somewhere quiet to hide. She raced through the empty house. There was no one else here. The Kane mansion hadn’t had live-in servants in years, not since Dakota moved out. She raced down the hall and into the grand entrance way and then over to the other side of the house, passing a billiard room, a home theater, and her old playroom, cursing every one as she passed. All of these pointless rooms and things were keeping her from the one thing she couldn’t live without.

 

The floors were a deep and shining chestnut brown, the carpet runners a deep red with a gold trim, and as Dakota’s eyes filled with the tears all of those colors blended together in front of her until she couldn’t see anything. Furiously, she wiped them away and wrenched open the door to her father’s room.

 

There’s was shattered glass and shards of wood splayed across the room. The large window on the northern facing wall was just a hole now, and the cool night air poured in and swirled around Dakota as she tried to make sense of what she was seeing. The entire window had been destroyed and bullet holes had ripped into the solid oak paneling on the other side of the room. Someone had shot at her father’s room from the street below. They must have sent hundreds of bullets into the house, hoping that one or two of them would give them their man.

 

“Daddy!” Dakota yelled, running to the side of his bed. Blood was pooling on the sheets and dripping onto the floor as Dakota crawled into the bed, calling out her father’s name, but there was no response.

 

“Are you there?” she sobbed into the phone.

 

“Yes, I’m here. The police are close, less than three minutes out.”

 

“Please, you have to send an ambulance. He’s been shot.”

 

“Who?”

 

“My father, please, you have to help me.”

 

John Kane had fallen asleep in a ratty Yale t-shirt that was now stained and sticky with blood. Dakota could see the holes in it where the bullets had penetrated his skin. He looked pale and feeble, like his skin was made of paper. He was breathing, but it was ragged and wet, like he needed to cough. His eyes were closed, but every few seconds his face would seize up in pain, relaxing only for a moment before seizing up again. “Dakota?” his voice sounded so thin and frail. Her father with his strong arms and deep voice who had never let her fall or skin her knee. Now he was on this bed, crying out to her.

 

“I’m here, Dad,” she said, cradling his head with her hands.

 

“You’re all right?” he asked, blood foaming at the corner of his mouth.

 

“Daddy, I’m fine. This was the only room that got hit. What happened? Who was it?”

 

“I don’t know,” he whispered. “Truly, I don’t.”

 

“POLICE! Ms. Kane, are you all right?” She could hear the police banging on the door, and then the sound of the door crashing open.

 

“Up here!” Dakota screamed. “Please hurry, he needs help.” Her father’s breathing was shallow and weak. She placed her fingers on his throat and could only feel the butterfly-light thump of his heartbeat. “Stay awake, okay, Dad? Please just try to stay awake until the paramedics get here. The ambulance is going to be here soon. Please make it, Dad. Please.”