Eli stood at the edge of his field, boots buried in soft, ruined soil. Deep tire tracks cut through his crops like scars, fresh and deliberate. It wasn’t just carelessness anymore—it was disrespect. His fists tightened at his sides. They’d crossed a line. And now, something had to be done.
He looked at the shattered stems of his young corn, the broken irrigation pipe, the tire still lodged half an inch into his wife’s flowerbed. His heart thudded—not from rage, but from a cold, creeping certainty. He’d tried signs. He’d tried asking. No one had listened. But now they would.
By sunrise the next morning, Eli would be out in his field again. Not to plead. Not to protest. But to take back what was his—with quiet determination, iron resolve, and a plan so petty, so perfect, it just might restore the peace he’d lost.