I lost sleep over that last night. Not much, but enough that I noticed. Enough that I’m standing under scalding water trying to wash away the lingering frustration of being utterly powerless in a situation that demands action.
A bunch of teenage punks giving Noah the bird. Where’s the respect? Where’s the basic human decency? And I know darn well Daryl was home when I tried to present him with the windshield bill. I could hear him snickering through the door. He chose not to answer. He chose to hide in his own house like a coward while his son and his son’s friends run wild in the streets.
It turns out, the Pickens have four children. And it’s as if the father is just as feral as the boys who have turned that place into Neverland. I’d hate to think what’s happening with the other kids in the family. Noah said there were more. What kind of example are they learning from watching their father drink beer and play video games while their mother works herself to exhaustion.
The whole thing makes my blood pressure spike.
I turn off the water just as the bathroom door opens.
Lemon appears, still in her pajamas—one of my old T-shirts that hangs to her knees—and her hair is doing that thing where it flattens on one side from sleeping.
She’s never looked more beautiful.
“I can turn it right back on,” I say, already reaching for her.
Her eyes light up for half a second. “Believe me, I’d much rather do that. But Noah just called. He said he needs you in the front yard ASAP.”
I freeze. “What?”
My brain immediately goes to worst-case scenarios. Someone’s hurt. Someone’s been in an accident. Something has happened. Something I won’t like.
I’m out of the shower, toweling off with barely controlled urgency, throwing on my robe, and heading for the front door before Lemon can say another word.
Carlotta appears in the hallway, bleary-eyed and wearing what appears to be a silk nightgown that’s seen better decades. “What’s all the racket?”
“Noah needs us outside,” Lemon says, scooping up Ozzy, who’s started fussing from his crib.
We all file out the front door.
The spring morning hits me like a postcard. Green lawns, a sky far too bright-blue for this early in the day, birds chirping in the trees as if they’re determined to deafen us, and the heavy scent of pine from the forest of evergreens lining our street.
It’s aggressively peaceful.
Noah stands in my driveway with his arms crossed, still in his running gear, and the expression on his face says he’s ready to commit a felony.
“Are you ready to have your day ruined?” he asks.
“Hold your horses, Foxy,” Carlotta says,shuffling down the porch steps. “This day hasn’t even kicked off with one of Lot’s donuts yet.”
“What’s going on?” I ask, though the sinking feeling in my gut suggests I already know.
Noah points to the front of the house, and we all turn as one.
And then we see them. Eggs. Lots of them. Everywhere.
At least a dozen are dripping and dried on the front windows, smeared across the siding, splattered on the garage door. My sedan looks like it lost a fight with a henhouse. Yolk runs down the windshield in thick yellow streaks. Shells are stuck to the hood.
I look down at the driveway.
White letters are scrawled across the asphalt—chunky, uneven, written in what looks like crushed stone or chalk. The words catch the morning light.
THIS IS WHAT YOU GET
My vision tunnels. Not anger. Not yet. Just cold, crystalline clarity.
This is what I get for calling the police when someone endangered my family. This is what I get for expecting consequences when a rock shattered my wife’s windshield with three children inside.
These kids think this is a warning.
