Leaning over the split-rail cedar fence that divided our properties was our neighbor: Brad.
Brad was thirty-five, built like a fire hydrant, with bulging biceps covered in cheap tribal ink and a thick, beer-bloated neck. He wore a grease-stained tank top, board shorts, and held a sweating can of Miller Lite in his calloused hand. For five hours, while Maya and I had hauled five-hundred-pound crates, he had sat on his front porch in a folding chair, staring at our hips and chests with that predatory, unblinking hunger common to men who believe women exist solely as recreational livestock.
“You got a broken pintle mount, sweetheart,” Brad smirked, taking a long swig from his can, letting a drop of foam dribble into his stubble. “That’s three-hundred-pound cold-rolled iron. You try to lift that with those skinny little arms, you’re gonna snap a collarbone. And this neighborhood… well, things wander in from the county road at night. Two pretty, defenseless girls living alone without a deadbolt? Bad idea.”
Maya walked over to my side, wiping her forehead with the back of her wrist. Her posture was relaxed, slightly slumped—a masterclass in tactical deception that she had used to disarm militia commanders in Kandahar.
“Do you have a heavy-duty hydraulic jack and an arc welder we could borrow for thirty minutes, sir?” Maya asked, keeping her voice light, innocent, and faintly timid. “We’d be happy to pay you for the equipment rental.”
Brad threw his head back and laughed—a wet, arrogant bray that made the golden retriever two doors down bark nervously.
He set his beer can on the fence post, leaned his broad forearms over the cedar rails, and let his eyes crawl down Maya’s collarbone before settling on my waist.
“I’LL FIX IT FOR FREE, BUT TONIGHT ONE OF YOU SISTERS HAS TO SLEEP WITH ME,” Brad purred, his lips curling into an ugly, confident grin. “I’ll bring my truck around, weld that iron tight as a bank vault, and put a heavy-duty slide latch on it. But a man’s time isn’t cheap. Tonight, nine o’clock sharp, one of you walks across that grass and knocks on my door. I don’t care which one. You two can flip a coin to see who gets to serve me.”
My left hand rested naturally near my hip.
In my mind, the combat telemetry was instantaneous: his center of gravity was high and leaning forward over the rail; his left hand was preoccupied with his waistband; his radial nerve on the right wrist was completely unguarded; the distance between my lead boot and his carotid artery was four feet. I could crush his windpipe in 1.4 seconds before he could drop the beer can.
Maya laid her hand gently over my forearm.
