“I do not want a scene,” I said, looking out the kitchen window at the blank cedar boards.

“I have lived here eleven years without a single cross word with anyone on this block.

Now I feel like a prisoner in my own kitchen.”

“He is counting on that,” Emma said.

She reached across the table and touched my wrist, her fingers warm and steady.

“He thinks you will just let him have the eight feet because you do not want to fight.

He is a salesman, Mom.