If someone crossed a boundary, Steve didn’t scream.
He simply made the boundary clear.
Somewhere after losing him, I had confused being peaceful with being powerless.
The following afternoon, the kids asked to swim.
I sat outside the entire time.
I watched.
They laughed.
Splashed.
Played.
Not one of them screamed.
Across the fence, Marlene’s curtains moved.
My son noticed.
“She’s watching again.”
“Ignore her.”
Marlene never came over that day.
For a few hours, I thought maybe everything was finished.
Then later that afternoon, I saw her through my kitchen window.
She was pacing while talking on her phone.
Every few seconds, she gestured aggressively toward my yard.
I should have trusted the feeling in my stomach.
Instead, I told myself:
Let it go.
That was my last mistake.
5:00 A.M.
The next morning, a deep mechanical rumble pulled me out of sleep.
I opened my eyes.
