“Right now we're safest in here,” Indy began saying as he put his arms around Freyr to comfort her. He didn't want her to panic. His grandfather had drilled it into Indy's head that staying calm in a crisis is paramount. Nelson Ford, Indy's grandfather, had always hated hysterics, panic, shouting, and all the things that come with chaos. After the first world war was over Nelson had become a police officer in New Jersey where he remained until his retirement a few years ago. When Indy was growing up in Princeton Nelson was there to look after him when his father was off on expeditions. It was during these years that Indy learned how to be calm. When something was stolen from him as a child he learned how to react responsibly, when he broke his arm he learned how to control his emotions. This had carried over into his adult life and, despite not knowing it at this time, would save his life in the years to come. 

“We're up high,” he added. “We have plenty of food and water to keep us going till the riots stop. If Georgia's in a state of emergency it won't be long until federal authorities come to help. We'll be fine. If you're lucky you might even meet some soldiers,” he teased Freyr to take her mind off what was happening. When he finished his sentence he heard that same series of [I]pop pop pop[/I] sounds outside. The helicopter had moved away and Indy assumed the pilot was guiding the army on the ground. He wandered over into the bedroom and changed out of the untidy clothes he had thrown on in a rush. He put on a grey t-shirt and a pair of dark blue jeans. Over his t-shirt he wore a green and white flannel shirt. He stared at the mirror in the low light and breathed slowly and deeply as he buttoned the shirt up. He considered asking himself what his grandfather would do in this situation, but he knew the answer already. Stay calm, don't panic. Nelson used to tell Indy how, during the first world war, panic got more men killed than enemy fire. Indy was certain he was exaggerating but he understood his point. Stay calm, save lives, he used to say. But Indy wasn't a soldier, he was an archaeologist, and he wasn't a man of Nelson's calibre, or at least that's what he would tell himself. He walked slowly over to the wardrobe and withdrew a small army green tin from the back, hidden away inside an inconspicuous cardboard box and buried under clothes. He heard the familiar click as he flicked the metal catch and lifted the top up. Inside he saw the pristine relic of war his grandfather had given him. The revolver, a small number of bullets and a worn brown leather leg holster.
 
“I guess I'll be needing you after all,” said Indy. The loud [I]snaps[/I] and [I]pops[/I] of gunfire outside had warned him it may be necessary to carry it, against his will. He tied the leather holster to his leg and hid the majority of it under his shirt. He slowly loaded the bullets into the revolver and placed it quietly into the holster. It wasn't like a modern pistol that could be carried in his trousers, it needed a proper holster to carry. He felt the uncomfortable weight on his right leg as he walked back into the living room and placed his arm around Freyr's waist.