He should have.
He had been given the exit.
Men like Michael mistake exits for insults.
Instead, he drew his weapon.
My mother made a sound I had never heard from her before.
It was not quite a scream.
It was smaller than that and worse.
Something between a breath and a break.
Tyler’s phone dipped.
The refrigerator kept humming.
The flag outside kept snapping against its pole.
I tracked Michael’s weapon hand, his feet, the angle of his shoulders, the distance between his body and mine.
Fear wanted noise.
Training wanted numbers.
Weapon hand.
Distance.
Witnesses.
Open line.
Protocol.
Five minutes, maybe less, if the response chain held.
Michael shoved the chair hard.
The tile came up fast.
I hit shoulder-first, then cheek-first.
Pain burst across my face, bright and hot.
Copper filled my mouth.
The cuff twisted my wrist against the chair leg, and for one second I was back in training rooms where mats smelled like sweat and rubber, where instructors taught us that the body panics before the mind finishes naming the threat.
