We’ll see you in a month,” I say, giving my mom a big hug. “When any new listings come on the market, I’ll forward them to you.”

She hangs on a little bit too long for my liking, but what am I going to do? She’s my mother and she’s making up for lost time. She flew to Virginia to appear at the custody hearing, but thankfully her testimony wasn’t needed. Instead of that stress she got to spend time with the kids, have a look at a few houses for sale in the area while taking a turn or two around Abingdon, sampling the slower the pace of life here compared to Florida.

She finally releases me and picks up her bag, slinging it over her shoulder. “You give Dillon and the kids my love. I’ll miss them.”

A few minutes later Mom’s on a plane and I’m headed back to Abingdon. Because traffic is light and the weather’s good, I’m home a half an hour before the school bus is due, arriving in plenty of time to meet the kids.

It’s been great having Mom here all week. Dillon and I haven’t had to juggle our schedules with the babysitter’s. Mom’s been around to pick up the slack, and the kids loved having her here. She spoils them, but that’s what grandparents are for.

Dillon should be home a little after five, and I go on at seven, which gives us just about an hour for a family meal. While I wait for the school bus, I prep four chicken breasts for dinner, leaving them on the counter while the oven pre-heats. I’m working on a garlic and three-cheese potato casserole to have with the chicken, when I hear the sound of the bus out front.

It’s early. That’s odd.

I wash and dry my hands, going to the door to greet the kids just as I always do; except when I open the front door there’s no school bus and no kids. Instead there’s a rusty blue pick-up parked behind my car, and a scowling old man climbing the porch steps.

“Where are the kids?” Henry Schmidt growls, halting mid-way up, his eyes narrow and cold.

“You need to leave,” I say, feeling my pulse quicken. My last encounter with this man was unpleasant, and that day he appeared to be in a much better mood than today. He looks downright crazy right now.

“You need to go, right now,” I repeat.

He takes another step up. I lift my phone from my hip pocket.

“I’m calling the cops,” I tell him, while focusing on breathing evenly, keeping myself calm. “You’re trespassing.”

I dial 911, lifting the phone to my ear while stepping out toward him, squaring up, making myself bigger. If this fucker thinks I’m intimidated, he’s got another thing coming.

“Go ahead, call the cops,” he hisses. “I ain’t done nothing wrong. I’m just here to take my grandkids home.”

“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?” the dispatcher answers, her voice pleasant and calm.

“I’ve got a man trespassing here, threatening to take my partner’s kids,” I say. “You need to come get him before I have to physically haul his ass into the street.”

Schmidt laughs at me. “You and who else, you soft-handed faggot? You gonna fly me out there using your fairy wings?”

“An officer is on the way,” the dispatcher replies. “What’s your name sir? And the address you’re calling from?”

“Jack Chance,” I reply, giving her the address.

“Stay on the line please.”

“Sure,” I reply, staring at Schmidt. “Tell the police officer that the man lost a custody suit he filed against Dillon Manning. He’s obviously pissed, planning to defy the judge’s order.”

“You’re damned right!” Schmidt shouts. “I don’t give a god damned what that cunt of a queer loving piece of shit said. She ain’t above God’s law!”

Just then I see the school bus rounds the corner.

“I gotta go,” I tell the dispatcher, my voice growing brittle thin with building rage. “The kids are coming on the school bus, and I’ve to get them inside, away from this nutcase.”

Schmidt turns, watching the bus approach. He drops down the steps at pace, headed across the yard toward where the bus lets the kids off.

“Get the fuck away from that bus,” I shout, following him.

A second later the doors open, and Jordan appears on the bottom step, his face grim with anxiety, his eyes narrow with distrust as he eyes his grandfather.

“Jordan, get back on the bus and stay there!” I call to him, making eye contact with the driver, begging him with my expression not to let the kids off.

Instead of backing up so the driver can close the door, Jordan holds the door open, using his body to block Chrissy and Joey who are behind him, hopefully oblivious to what’s going on.

“Son, get your brother and sister and come with me,” Schmidt says, walking closer to Jordan. “You’re coming to stay with me. I ain’t leaving ya’ll here with this abomination.”

Jordan stares at the man, then shakes his head. “No,” he says. “We’re not going with you. “We live with Uncle Dillon and Jack now. The judge said so.”

“Jordan, please get back on the bus!” I call again from behind Schmidt.

Jordan starts to take a step back, but Schmidt lunges forward, grabbing him by his wrist.

“You foul-mouthed little shit,” Schmidt spits. “I’ll wear your little faggot ass out.” He yanks Jordan forward, making him stumble and fall to his face on the curb. I look and see that Jordan’s lip is split, bleeding on the pavement, and Henry Schmidt is reaching for Chrissy next.

And that’s when everything goes a little bit hazy in my world. Something inside my head that contains everything I’ve spent my life building mechanisms to control, switches off. The volume is suddenly turned way, way up, and all the colors get more intense.

I lose any sense of the passing of time or the presence of other beings in my world. The past and the future evaporate in a rage of immediate focus on just one thing; destroying this man who just hurt Jordan. I want him to know pain and humiliation. I want him to experience utter helplessness and fear. I want him to suffer the way he’s made others suffer. I’m the judge and jury, and I exist only to exact justice.

All the physical work I’ve done to strengthen my body, to learn to control it, to focus its energy for calm, patience, and goodness; that’s all turned inside out, directed at this man in this moment.

I’m only vaguely aware of fists pounding flesh and bone. I don’t feel any pain as my blows connect. The bright red blood on his face, clotting on my fists, just commingles with the intense green of grass beneath my knees and the dirty orange t-shirt the man wears. His hair is a mass of tangled gray and streaming red. His eyes, just bloody red sockets now, closed as he cries, begging—then open and slack when he stops crying.

Pounding his neck and his chest, kicking him, is like striking a cold side of meat. He doesn’t resist or respond. Burgundy drool pours from his mouth, foaming with his halting breath, and still I go on, because I can’t stop.

But I am stopped.

Suddenly the movie speeds up, the volume drops, and everything comes back into focus. I’m pulled backwards, stumbling on my ass, flailing as I’m rolled onto my face, my hands yanked hard behind me, a knee—two knees—pinning me to the ground. I feel metal against my wrists, pinching tightly.

“Stop resisting!” a voice shouts, frantic. “Stop resisting!”

Another voice, this one ripe with anxiety is on the phone, asking for an ambulance and back-up.

“Take care of the kids,” I hear myself say, my voice hoarse and croaking. “Make sure the kids are okay. Call Dillon. Call Dillon Manning at the fire department. Please take care of the kids.”

* * *

What did I do?

Dillon’s here. They won’t let him talk to me. I’m locked in the back of a police cruiser in the middle of the street, and Dillon’s in the yard, freaking out. Gil’s there. Gil Steele and about seven other cops, all trying to calm Dillon down.

EMS came ten minutes ago and took Schmidt away. He was still breathing when they left, and I pray he keeps breathing. He looked like he’d been run over twice by a bus and then beat with a baseball bat. I did that. I don’t know how I did it, but I know I did.

Kathi and Griff came and took the kids inside. They wouldn’t let Kathi talk to me either.

A cop approaches the car, looking at me. He opens the passenger door, has a quick look at me, then sits down.

“Jack Chance, you’re under arrest for assault,” he says. “We’ll let the DA sort out the details.”

He turns to look at me. “You better hope the old man lives. Otherwise, you’re going down for murder, and I’ve got more witnesses than you have birthdays. Most of them are under twelve years old. You did that shit in front of a bunch of little kids. There is something seriously wrong with you.”

Maybe there really is.