The kids were outside playing. I had finally gotten into work mode and was in the middle of a business call when screams erupted from the back yard.
A moment later my wife appeared at the sliding glass back door with our 7-year-old son, rushing him in toward the kitchen sink while yelling for someone to grab a towel.
Quickly telling the person on the other end of the call I had to go, then leaping up as I fumbled with the End Call button, I was barely out of my chair at the dining room table before I discovered the problem.
Jacob had cut his hand. Bad.