The deputies had been standing in Spine’s yard so long they were starting to look like two confused yard gnomes someone forgot to put away after Easter.

Stone kept shifting his weight like his boots were full of bees.

Blake kept wiping his palms on his pants like he was preparing for a job interview he wasn’t qualified for.

The cats watched them from the porch with the cold, silent judgment of a jury that had already reached a verdict.

The General sat on his cinderblock throne, one eye narrowed, tail flicking like a metronome of doom.

The parolees were already on their second round of commentary.

One of them squinted at the deputies, then at Lula’s window, then back at the deputies.

“What has that woman done?”

The other parolee shrugged.

“Hell if I know. But whatever it is, Lula’s actin’ like she’s wanted in three states.”

The rooster strutted by, unimpressed.

Lula’s blinds twitched like she was trying to Morse‑code her outrage.

Then —

the sound of tires on gravel.

Stone straightened up so fast his spine popped.

Blake sucked in his stomach like that would help.

The cats rose in formation like a furry militia.

Spine’s car rolled into the yard, dust swirling behind it like a dramatic entrance she didn’t even plan.

She stepped out, sunglasses on, bag from the weed store in hand, and took in the scene:

Two deputies sweating.

A porch full of parolees.

A rooster judging everyone.

A cat army in full formation.

She sighed.

“What in the Dollar General circus is this.”

Stone cleared his throat, trying to look official even though he looked like a man who’d lost a fight with humidity.

“Ma’am… Lula says you need to go.”

Spine blinked once.

“Lula can say whatever she wants. Why are y’all in my yard.”