and wide. His kicks, though fast, lacked balance. He kept his chin too high and telegraphed his
heavy blows with his shoulders. Mason trained for points and plastic trophies. He had never
trained for survival. Still, I figured a young man was entitled to his overconfidence. It wasn't my
problem—until his arrogance began spilling into the streets, harassing delivery drivers and
intimidating the neighborhood kids.
The first real test of my patience occurred in mid-July. Sophie was washing my truck in the
driveway, listening to music at a reasonable volume. I was reading on the front porch when I saw
Mason march across the property line without a word.
He shoved past Sophie, reached directly through the open window of my truck, and violently
twisted the radio knob until it snapped off in his hand. "My head hurts," he sneered at my
daughter. "Keep it quiet." Sophie froze, her eyes wide with shock. I set my book down. The time
for quiet observation had passed.