You ever seen a grown woman stomp her feet so hard the palmettos shook?

Well, welcome to Podunk. That’s how our story starts.

Lula — loud as a bullhorn and twice as sure of herself — came barreling out her front door like somebody’d challenged her throne. She stomped across that sandy yard with all the authority she gives herself, which is considerable, and hollered for her “babies” like she was calling hogs to supper.

Now, her babies ain’t babies. They’re grown folks, mostly parolees from the county prison, who let her boss ’em around because it’s easier than arguing. Lula tells ’em when to mow, when to sit, when to breathe, and they nod along like she’s the warden.

But that morning?

That stomp wasn’t for them.

That stomp was for the one thing Lula can’t manage.

A tenant with a spine.

And Podunk ain’t been the same since.