On an Oak Creek Street, a Retired Navy SEAL Took Off His Flannel Shirt

“We can’t have unstable people living on this street,” Harry shouted, making sure he could be heard on the porch across the road.

“My son’s got bruises on his wrist.”

Miller wiped his hands on a yellow rag and walked back to his garage without a glance my way.

I went back into the kitchen and sat down at the table across from Emily.

She’d shoved her track schedule into her binder and was staring at the bare wood between her hands.

“Are they talking about us?” she asked quietly.

“They’re talking,” I said.