It was a crime.

We're constantly faced with random violence, its prevalence in the media and its abrupt appearance in even the safest-seeming neighborhoods. Hit-and-runs, takeover robberies, wedding reception gunshots -- events like these turn lives upside down. "Be careful," we tell each other. "Be safe. Watch your back." But I've been feeling somewhat immune from violence lately. It's not that I doubt that violence will touch me. Rather, I know that it already has.

Because what happened to Dad was a crime. We will never know the perpetrator: the gene gone wrong, the chemical exposure once or repeatedly, not enough exercise, a refusal to play board games. But Dad was stricken, suddenly, without warning, and without recourse. We watched as he was dragged away from us, and our pleading, and his, had little effect. His fear was palatable, his persecutor merciless.

And then it was over. The adrenaline rush eased, the weeks of uncertainly ended, and our lives have returned to normal. But we're not the same: our brush with violence has left us both wary and grateful. It's the relief of the survivor: "It could have been worse."