“I’ve had it with the Marshal kid, Stevie, I’ve just had it.” Sam said with frustration. He was never one for children, especially the children that played in our street. He said they were troubled, bad news. I, for one, never believed him.

“What’s your issue today, Sam?” I asked with my hand on my cocked hip. I half expected him to say something about the terrible mouths the street boys always had, or mention their baggy clothes.

“The hockey sticks they made from tree limbs are scattered all over the driveway, I nearly popped a tire just trying to park!” he said, and I had to agree with him, we can’t afford to fix car damage.

“Better go out there, then. Let them know our driveway is not their play yard. Make sure the point is made, Sam. I don’t want to readdress this tomorrow while you’re at work.” I said, turning my back to him to do the dishes I had nearly finished before his arrival.

A few minutes later, the front slammed abruptly as I scrub the final plate in the sink. It clinks against the other plates as I place it in the drying rack. I grabbed the scratchy towel to dry my pruned hands, and turned around to see Sam’s hands covered in blood. My heart started to race, knowing Sam had lost his temper again…

“What on Earth have you done, Samuel? Tell me you’ve fallen!” I screamed as my hands shook, knowing deep in my heart that Sam had taught the street boys a different kind of lesson. He walked past me straight down the hallway, and that’s when I heard the sirens. I peeked through the kitchen curtains just in time to see the police officer park directly in front of our blood soaked driveway.