The convoy didn't crawl.
They turned into our circular gravel driveway with the synchronized, devastating precision of an active tactical interdiction.
The heavy tires of six cruisers crushed the fallen oak leaves, their engines idling in a low, bone-vibrating chorus that brought every retired neighbor on our street out onto their front porches. Old Mr. Henderson, who had served with the Marines in Da Nang, stood by his mailbox with his garden hose frozen in his hand, his jaw dropping as twelve armed law enforcement officers deployed across my front lawn.
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"They're on the grass..." Beverly whimpered, pressing her face against the living room sheer curtains. "Trevor, look at the lawn... there are federal agents with tactical vests on the hydrangeas!"
The heavy oak front door of our house didn't need to be breached.
I stood up, walked down the hallway, and opened the door wide into the cool mountain air.
