It was a quiet day. Maybe a Sunday, maybe a snow day. Sarah was upstairs feeding the baby. The boys, I think, were in their room playing Legos. Taking advantage of a peaceful moment, I lay on the couch with my feet propped up and started to read. Shortly thereafter, Finley came down the stairs.

Papa, he said.

Yeah?

Can I go down in the basement and drill?

Yeah, of course.

Playing with the drill didn’t seem so dangerous to me, even at his young age. A few days prior, I had given them a piece of wood, demonstrated how to insert the bit, and let them have at it. Finley went into the basement and I continued reading; the motor whizzed and spun. A short while later, he screamed.

Papa. Papa. Get it off me. Papa, help me.

I ran downstairs. What is it, I said. He was sitting on the floor, terrified.

Get it off me.

I looked down. The bit was inside one of the holes of his Crocs. Did it drill into your foot?

No.

Okay, you’re okay. Try to calm down.

I can't, Papa. Get it out.

I went to pull the bit from his shoe, but it was stuck. Upon further examination, I found the bit had grabbed his sock and twisted it tight. Is your foot hurt, I asked. No, just get it out Papa. I reversed the spin and carefully rotated the bit free from his sock and shoe. Once cleared, I set the drill onto the concrete floor.

How did that happen?

I don't know. I just dropped it.

You're okay?

Yeah.

He was crying. I pulled him close and put my arm around him. It's okay. You're okay. I know that was scary. Everything is okay.

He kept crying. Am I in trouble? he asked.

No, you're not in trouble. Not even a little. I'm just glad you're okay.

He continued to cry. He didn't say anything for a while. Finally: Are you sure I'm not in trouble?

Yes, I'm sure. Next time, let's do it together.

I don't want to do it next time.

Okay, I understand.

Can I go now?

Yes.

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