I woke up around 4 in the morning to the sounds of my 11 year old daughter, Madison,

screaming.

My wife, Sarah, had just started the sit up in bed by the time I ripped open our bedroom door.

My heart was racing.

In my panic, I hadn't even realized I'd picked up my revolver from within my bedside

table.

Something was terribly wronged.

Sarah began to cry out in terror behind me as I raced across the top floor of my house.

I found Madison's door still shot from the night before.

I gripped the dawn up and pushed my way inside, nearly falling onto the floor as I did so.

Madison was laid out on her bed, her covers bunched up in a pile on the floor.

Her hair was wet, as if it were covered in sweat.

She was pressing hard against the stomach with both of her hands, screaming loudly.

Madie, what's wrong? I cried out, kneeling beside my daughter's bed.

Daddy, please, help me," she screamed, sobbing.

Maddie began to roll around in pain.

Sarah appeared in the doorway behind me.

Oh my God, what's wrong?

She said, entering the room.

I looked over my shoulder, my eyes wide.

Go call an ambulance, I said, watching Sarah as she stared at her daughter.

Go!

...