The morning had gone quiet again — Spine thought the storm had passed.

Pinkerton had driven off with the rental agreement tucked under her arm, badge #24 glinting like closure. Spine trusted her professionalism.

But Podunk doesn’t do closure.

Podunk does reruns with worse acting.

By noon, the gravel started crunching again — two cruisers this time, rolling in slow like they were hunting a fugitive instead of a woman who buys chai and cat treats.

Sgt. Stone #9 got out first, chest puffed like he was auditioning for a reality show nobody watches.

Deputy Blake #21 followed, clutching his clipboard like it was a flotation device in a sea of bad decisions.

Only problem?

Spine wasn’t home.

She was in Bud Junction, at the weed store, sniffing jars and asking the budtender whether “Couch‑Glue” was more of a nighttime thing or a “don’t talk to me today” thing. She was in the mood for some f it, that only weed provides.

Back at the trailer, her son was on the porch, fixing something, minding his business, absolutely not volunteering a single syllable more than required by law or decency.

Stone knocked like he was trying to wake the dead.

Her son opened the door, rag in hand, expression set to I am not impressed.

Stone didn’t even say hello.

“We’re looking for Spine.”

Her son shrugged.

“She ain’t here.”

Blake stepped forward, clipboard raised like he was about to issue a citation for existing.

“Lula says she needs to go.”

Her son leaned on the doorframe, unimpressed.

“Then y’all can wait.”

Stone bristled.

“We need her number.”

Her son gave him that long, slow, you must be out your damn mind stare.

“I don’t hand out her number.”

Blake shifted like his boots were suddenly too tight.

Stone tried again.

“Sir, we need to contact her.”

Her son sighed — not scared, not pressured, just tired of the circus.

“I’ll call her. Y’all can talk to her yourselves.”

He stepped inside, dialed, and said in that calm, steady way:

“Hey. You got two deputies here. They wanna talk to you.”

Then he held the phone out the door like it was a hot potato he refused to hold.

Stone snatched it like he’d won a prize at the fair.

Spine answered over "You can be an asshole. You can be a dick. You can be a stupid mother fucker. But I don't have to listen to your shit."

“Hello? let me turn that down."

Stone didn’t bother with pleasantries.

“We’re at your residence. Lula says you need to go, so you best git.”

We need to talk. Are you going to wait there until I get home?

Stone paused — you could hear his brain reboot.

“We’ll wait.”

And they did.

Two deputies.

Two cruisers.

A rooster.

Her son on the porch, arms crossed, absolutely immovable.

Lula peeking through her blinds like she was directing a telenovela.

And the parolees next door sipping warm beer from cans like it was communion.

By the time Spine pulled into the driveway, bag of weed in the passenger seat, Stone and Blake were standing there like they’d been practicing their lines in the mirror.

Stone stepped forward.

“Lula said you need to go, so you best git.”

Spine got out slow, sunglasses on, already irritated.

Her son didn’t move from the porch.

Didn’t say a word.

Just watched — steady, loyal, unbothered — like he’d been guarding the whole damn property.

And that’s when the showdown truly began —

the kind where even the rooster stopped crowing to see how stupid it was gonna get.