The hammer is already in my jacket.Short handle.Good weight.It was my grandfather’s.
The first strike breaks bone.Clean.The sound is dull, like dropping a melon.
The second one is for memory.
That’s when my phone vibrates.
I pause.Not because I’m done.Because I’m curious.
I look at the screen.
A number I don’t recognize, which isn’t surprising.A number from New York, which also isn’t surprising.
Marin.
It rings twice and stops abruptly.
The kid is crying now, real tears, breath hitching, hand already swelling into something unrecognizable.
There’s a beat.I imagine her standing in that house, phone pressed to her ear, eyes already scanning for problems she hasn’t named yet.I call her back.
“You hung up,” I say.
Her voice is tight.Defensive.
“Bad service.”
She’s lying.
“Right.”I keep it simple.No point dressing it up.“You fall?”
There’s a pause.Long enough to confirm it.
“Why would you assume I fell?”
“Because I told you that board would go,” I say, pressing my elbow to his shoulder when he tries to lift his head.“And because you sound like you’re in pain.”
Another pause.Then quieter: “It’s fine.”
She’s looking down right now.I can hear it in the way she says it.
The kid whimpers—sharp inhale, garbled sob.I lean in just enough for him to see my face.A warning.
“Is that…an animal?”she asks, deadpan.
I almost laugh.She has no idea how funny she is.“Just a stray.”
I tighten my grip on the hammer, tell her I’ll see her soon.
Then I hang up and turn my attention back to the problem.
“You’re moving,” I tell him.“Today.You’re not selling here anymore.Not tomorrow.Not ever.You’re done.”
“I will,” he sobs.“I swear.Please.”
I believe him.Pain is persuasive.
I take his phone and smash it with the hammer.
