“Keep your hands to yourself, Trent,” I said.

My voice was quiet and level.

His phony grin disappeared.

He took a heavy, aggressive step over the woodchip border and right into my space, until his chest was four inches from mine.

“Or else what?” Trent said.

He reached out with his right hand and grabbed the thick collar of my Sears flannel shirt hard.

He twisted his knuckles in against my collarbone, pulling the heavy cotton tight until the top plastic button popped off and bounced into the grass.

“You going to file a noise complaint with Arthur Peterson, old man?” Trent asked, his voice sinking to a rough whisper.