— “I live here,” — Mike replied. — “Who are you?”
— “Used to live here,” — the man corrected him. — “The name’s Vince. I’m the new landlord. And you are?”
— “Mike Sullivan. The son.”
— “Ah, the soldier boy!” — Vince nodded. — “Welcome home. Just in time to help your folks move, I see.”
— “I want to know what the hell you’re doing in my house,” — Mike stepped further into the room. His fists were clenched at his sides.
Vince laughed. It was a greasy, condescending sound.
— “Not your house, pal. Mine. You want to see the deed?” — He tapped a stack of papers on the coffee table. — “Everything’s above board. Private sale. Your old man defaulted, and the property was liquidated. Go talk to a lawyer if you don’t believe me.”
— “My father didn’t sell this house,” — Mike said, his voice dropping an octave. — “He took a loan.”
— “He took a loan he couldn’t pay,” — Vince countered, blowing a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. — “The contract had a ‘deed in lieu of foreclosure’ clause. He signed it. Vance exercised it. Then he sold it to me. Law’s the law, buddy.”
One of the guards set the humidor down with a thud. The other was scrolling through his phone, looking bored. Vince flicked ash onto the hardwood floor—the floor Mike’s dad had spent weeks refinishing.
— “I have money,” — Mike said. — “I can settle the debt.”
— “Too late.” — Vince stood up. He was taller than Mike, broader. — “Property’s already flipped. I like this place. I think I’ll stay. You and your parents need to clear out. You’ve got until sundown to get the rest of your junk off the lawn.”
— “This is our home,” — Mike repeated quietly.
— “Was your home.” — Vince stepped closer, trying to use his size to intimidate. — “Now it’s my investment. You got a problem? Go see Vance. He’s the one who took it. I’m just the guy who bought it.”
Mike looked at him. Then at the guards. Then at the ash on the floor. He looked at the family photos still on the wall—his parents’ wedding, his high school graduation. One of the guards stepped forward, putting a hand on Mike’s chest.
— “You heard the man,” — the guard said. — “Time to go.”
Mike felt something snap inside, but he held it. He could take these guys. He knew he could. But he remembered his dad’s warning: they had the Sheriff. If he swung now, he’d be the one in handcuffs, and his parents would be even more vulnerable.
— “Fine,” — Mike said, stepping back. — “I’m leaving. But this isn’t over.”
— “It’s over, kid,” — Vince smirked. — “Trust me. It’s over.”
Mike walked out. He closed the door softly, resisting the urge to kick it in. He walked down the path to where his parents were still sitting. His mother looked at him with a sliver of hope. Mike shook his head.
— “No,” — he said. — “Not yet.”
His mother started to cry again. Mike pulled out his phone and scrolled to a contact labeled ‘Alex.’ They’d served in the same platoon. Alex was the kind of guy who’d walk through fire for his friends. He lived two towns over.
Mike texted: ‘Hey man. I’m home. I’ve got a situation.’
The reply was instant: ‘Name the place. I’m there.’
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