rust panel


“Back in fifteen,” I said.

I closed our front door and twirled the car keys around my finger. Through the giant bay window I saw my beautiful wife sidling a chair up to the table. Our two boys, four and eight, sat dutifully on the same side waiting for dessert. It was a decent home. It was a decent life.

Most days.

I tried to ignore the rusted panel van as it passed by in the cul de sac. Couldn’t resist, though. The driver gave me a nod. Two men piled out in my driveway, pulling masks over their faces. The corner of my eye caught the last of the sun glinting on their axes in the rearview.