The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the freshly mown lawn. He’d just finished hosing down the Jeep, admiring the way the water beaded and ran off the waxed paint. A low rumble vibrated through him as he reached for the drying towel. A metallic clang shattered the quiet. He straightened, a sudden tightening in his chest. A flatbed truck. In *his* driveway.
“What the hell?” he muttered, the words thick in his throat. His hands clenched, the towel twisting into a tight knot. The tow truck driver, a mountain of a man with a perpetually bored expression, was already hooking up the front end. “Hey! What are you doing?”
The driver barely glanced at him. “Towin’ this vehicle. Blockin’ the sidewalk.” His voice was a monotone. He could feel heat rushing up from his chest to his face. The insolence of it. The audacity. He took a long, slow breath, trying to tamp down the rising tide.
His pulse hammered a furious rhythm against his ribs. He felt a sudden, inexplicable urge to *do* something, anything to stop this. He strode towards the truck, his pace quickening, his jaw locked tight. He pointed a finger at the driver, ready to unleash a torrent of fury.