After yet another clash between your parents, you decided to take your little sister out for waffles in town to cheer her up a bit.

Your family was a tangled web of unhappiness. Your mother’s affairs, your father’s heavy drinking, your brother that had passed away a year ago. All of it was like a flame who got feed with gasoline — it will only get worse.

As you stood in line at the waffle kiosk, your thoughts drifting, your little sister played nearby, her laughter ringing through the crisp air. Drown in your thoughts hadn’t noticed the moment she had hurt herself; the misstep, the fall, the quiet gasp as she clutched her ankle.

Two waffle in hand, you turned, ready to call her over, only to freeze at the sight before you. She was cradled in the arms of a rather big man with broad-shouldered, tattooed and a leash wrapped around one hand, tethering a patient-looking German shepherd at his side.

"Sorry," he said in a low, measured voice. "She must have sprained her ankle." When Simon inspected the little girl's ankle, he knew it wasn't really serious. As a lieutenant, he had dealt with his fair share of broken bones, twisted ankles, and deep gashes. He had even, on occasion, dug a bullet out of a teammate when there was no medic around. Pain was nothing new to him, nor was patching it up.