The carpeted stairs were mercifully quiet. I kept my weight close to the wall to avoid making the steps creak. Once at the top, I checked my corners and crouch-walked toward my parents’ bedroom. The door was shut, but from behind it, I could hear a low moan and a sound like fabric tearing. The rage in my gut soared to a crescendo.

I pressed my ear gently to the door and listened. More sounds of fabric ripping. My stepmother’s voice, speech slurred, a plaintive tone.

The lug wrench was still poised over my left shoulder, my right hand holding the gun. There was no way to know how many intruders I was facing or how well they were armed. But what I did know was that Lauren was in there, she was hurt, and I was the only person in a position to do anything about it. Equal parts rage and fear coursed through me as I took a half step back, lunged forward, and slammed my foot just left of the door handle.

The door burst open hard enough to crack the drywall behind it. I stepped into the room and darted my eyes from one side to the other. My parents’ bed was to the left, a dresser and Lauren’s jewelry stand against the wall to my right. Lauren lay flat on the bed, gagged and bound with duct tape.

There were two intruders, Caucasian males, one young, maybe early twenties, the other in his mid to late forties. Both wore identical blue polo shirts and tan slacks with dark brown dress shoes—the kind of thing a door-to-door salesman might wear on a temperate spring day. One crouched to my right, rooting through Lauren’s jewelry stand, while the other sat astride Lauren’s hips, ripping away at her blouse. Pale pink fabric lay in tatters on the bed around them, one side of her bra torn away to reveal her small right breast. Both men looked up in almost comical surprise as I entered the room.

Without hesitation, I hurled the lug wrench in a straight overhand toss. By good fortune, the flat end hit the man astride Lauren full in the mouth, causing the lower half of his face to explode in a crimson burst of blood and broken teeth. He let out an inarticulate cry of agony and toppled backward off the bed.

The other man saw the gun and lunged.

It is hard to describe what happens to you in situations like that. The adrenaline rush, the taste of copper on the back of your tongue, the tunnel vision, the way the world goes gray around the edges, the sound of your heart hammering in your ears, the way everything happens in the course of seconds but there are so many details.

I once heard a commercial where a coach exhorted to his team how life was a game of inches. How the small distances—the space between a receivers hand and a football, how close a soccer ball rolls toward the goal line, whether a boxer’s punch connects with his opponent’s chin or empty air—these tiny gaps, or lack thereof, are what make the difference between victory and defeat.

In mortal combat, they make the difference between life and death.

The intruder crossed the space between us in less than a second, hands outstretched toward my gun. But as fast as his legs propelled him across the room, my trigger finger was faster.

The first shot went low, striking him in the abdomen. I’m not sure if he even felt it—he didn’t make a sound—but by then he was halfway across the room. I raised my aim to avoid his grasping hands and fired again the instant before he hit me. He was shorter than me, but heavier, his weight enough to send both of us tumbling into the hallway. I had the presence of mind hook my instep under his thigh as we went down, and by rolling with the fall and thrusting with my arms and legs, I flipped his body up and over me. He landed flat on the floor, the air whooshing out of his lungs.

I twisted on the ground, brought my gun to bear, and fired twice into his chest at point blank range. In the fraction of a second it took me to fire, I realized I was wasting ammo. There was a neat nine-millimeter hole in his forehead. A pool of blood began to form beneath him, crimson liquid pouring from the back of his skull like water from a faucet. For a second or two, all I could do was stare in horrid fascination, and then I heard a curse and a thump from the bedroom.

Wake up! You’re not out of danger.

Just as I rolled flat on my back to face the doorway, a gunshot rang out. I could see the other man kneeling on the ground with one hand over his ruined mouth, the other holding a snub-nosed revolver. His shot went wide, smashing into the drywall to my left and dusting my face with white powder.

With my legs pressed flat to the ground to avoid shooting them, I fired four times. The first three shots caught the intruder center of mass, the impacts causing him to jerk violently. The last shot went wide and perforated the wall behind him. His gun fell from nerveless fingers as he slumped over and coughed out a bright spray of blood. Wide, surprised eyes stared at me for an eternity of seconds, then went blank. His face slackened just before I heard his bowels let go.

Then there was silence.

I lay on the ground, eyes stinging from the drywall dust, my own harsh breath grating in my ears. The three white dots on the CZ’s sights stayed lined up on the intruder’s chest, my finger tight on the trigger. Slowly, I eased my index finger along the slide and stood up. The intruder’s corpse shuddered a few times as I approached, but soon went still. To my left, I heard Lauren groan.

I ran to her side and looked her over. One eye was badly swollen, and there was a nasty split on her lower lip. But aside from a few scrapes and scratches where her blouse had been torn away, I couldn’t find any other injuries.

My father kept a pocketknife in his bedside table, which I used to cut away Lauren’s restraints. She was still only half conscious, so I tapped her on the cheek and said her name. Her eyes rolled, fluttered, then looked at me and began to focus. I pulled up a corner of the tape on her mouth and said, “Ready?”

She nodded, and I ripped it away. Her eyes watered from the pain. “Caleb, are you all right?”

“I’m fine, Lauren. Are you hurt?”

“My head…” One of her hands gingerly touched the swelling around her eye. I grabbed it and put the hand back down at her side.

“How bad is it?”

“One of them…hit me…”

Her eyes aren’t tracking. Concussion. She needs an ambulance.

“Listen, Lauren. How many of them were there? Was it just the two, or are there more?”

“Just two, I think.” Her voice was getting stronger.

“Okay, just stay here. Try not to move, okay? I’ll be right back.”

I did a quick sweep of the house and found no other intruders. Before going back upstairs, I called 911, explained the situation, and requested police and medical assistance.

“Are the intruders still in the house?” The dispatcher’s voice was female, older sounding, but firm and confident.

“Yes ma’am. Two of them. They’re both dead.”

A pause. “Are you sure?”

“Yes ma’am. One of them took a shot to the head, and the other took three slugs to the heart. I checked them both for a pulse.”

“Did either one of them have a pulse?”

“No ma’am.”

“And you were the one who shot them?”

“Yes. I already told you that.”

“Do you still have the weapon?”

“Yes. I’m going to unload it and put it on the coffee table in the living room.”

“Okay, I’ll let the responding officers know. Are there any other weapons in the house?”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Have you dispatched an ambulance yet?”

“Yes, I have. They’re on the way. Can you stay on the line with me until they get there?”

“How long until they get here?”

“I’m not sure, honey. They’re on the way, though. It shouldn’t be long.”

“I’m going upstairs and staying with my stepmom until they get here.”

“That’s fine, honey, just try not to move her, okay?”