A young man in a green, grease-stained work shirt hopped down from the driver’s side with a steel clipboard clipped to his leather belt.

“You Daniel Miller?” he asked, glancing up from his paperwork.

“That’s me,” I said.

“That car belongs to the woman staying inside.”

Vanessa shoved through the screen door, her face going white.

“What are you doing with my car?” she shouted from the top step.

“Hauling it back to the corporate lot in Rockford, ma’am,” the driver said, dragging a heavy steel winch cable toward the front bumper.

“The lease payment on this vehicle is sixty-two days past due.”