The bright yellow paint caught the orange dusk through the bare oak branches.

Brad had left a voicemail on my phone while I was driving back from Menomonie.

All the smooth salesman’s charm had drained out of his voice.

He sounded thin and sharp, like a wire strung too tight.

“You think you won something in court today, Amy,” the message said.

“Kurt’s group has four thousand dollars sunk into opening morning.

They’ve got a signed contract with your name on it.

They’re driving up from Menomonie at five a.m., and nobody’s stopping them.”