I am sixty-eight years old. My knees ache terribly when the barometer drops, and my hands carry the permanent, deep-set grease stains of running Thorne’s Auto Repair for three decades. I didn't have the breath to fight back immediately. The man had shoved his way through the side office door at exactly six-forty in the morning, wearing a black tactical vest, heavy boots, and a gleaming gold badge pinned over his heart.
"You're making a mistake," I managed to say, trying to keep my voice steady as the edge of the toolbox dug into my lower spine.
He leaned his weight forward into the heavy steel baton. The pressure burned against my skin through my thick flannel shirt. "The only mistake is you thinking you can ignore the city's zoning laws for another month. Apex Development bought this entire block. You’re a hazard to the community."