An hour later, Grant Whitaker pounded on my door, his son hiding behind him. "You put your
hands on my son?" Grant screamed. I calmly explained that Mason grabbed me and lost his
balance. Grant poked me in the chest. "You pathetic little office worker. Touch him again, and I’ll
sue you until this house belongs to me." I looked at his finger until he withdrew it. The line had
been crossed. A public confrontation was now inevitable.
Labor Day brought the annual Oak Hollow block party. The cul-de-sac was cordoned off, filled
with folding tables, coolers, and children running through sprinklers. I attended with Sophie,
keeping to the edges, chatting quietly with neighbors.
Grant and Mason arrived like invading royalty. Mason wore a tight black Ironcrest Combat
Academy shirt, his fighting gloves dangling from his gym bag. He clearly had an agenda. He
wanted to re-establish his dominance in front of the largest audience possible, and he had chosen
me as his victim.