“You can’t fight him forever,” Luke said quietly.

“I’m not fighting Walt,” I said.

“I’m getting our home back.”

Monday morning, I drove forty miles east on Route 6 to the Hastings clinic.

The waiting room had four green vinyl chairs lined up against a beige wall.

The whole office smelled strongly of alcohol wipes and peppermint mouthwash.

Brenda, the clinic’s hiring manager, sat across from me in the cramped break room.

The hum of an air compressor echoed down the narrow hallway.