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anyway.
    “Move on, you fucking gypsies, no one wants whatever you’re selling,” the guy shot back. He was wearing those black hipster-doofus glasses that were big fifteen years ago.
    Ange gave him the finger.
    “When did lawn mower jokes start?” I asked Colin.
    “Hmm.” He thought about it. “I’m gonna say the summer of ’19. Really poor people stopped mowing a couple years earlier, but that year was the biggie. I think the first jokes were about watering lawns though—” Colin stopped walking. “Oh shit.”
    Two more men had come out of the garage, clutching rifles. One of them tossed an empty beer can into the weeds and stormed up the driveway.
    “You think you’re funny?” he said, getting right in Ange’s face, blocking her from continuing. This guy wasn’t wearing glasses; he had muscles, and a swagger. Everything about him screamed “angry
    war veteran.”
    Ange didn’t say anything.
    “Well?” the guy said. “You think you’re funny?” He smacked her across the face, hard.
    Barely skipping a beat, Ange spat in his face. From thirty feet away I could see rage light up the guy’s eyes as he wiped a spot just under his eye with the back of his wrist.
    “We’re leaving now, we’re leaving now,” I said, edging toward them. “We’re sorry.” My heart raced as the guy turned his glare on me.
    “You go right ahead and leave. That’s a smart idea.”
    He grabbed Ange’s wrist and yanked. She screamed, dug in her feet, clawed at the fingers clamped to her wrist.
    We all ran to help her. The third man took a few quick steps forward, raised his rifle and aimed it at Colin’s chest. Everyone stopped.
    The guy with the glasses grabbed Ange’s other flailing arm. They dragged her, screaming, down the driveway and up the concrete stoop. The third guy, a short, bald guy, backed toward the door, pointing his rifle at one of us, then another.
    “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll move on,” he said from the top step. He lowered the rifle and followed them into the house.
    Inside, Ange screamed.
    “Somebody help!” Jeannie cried. She was facing a scrum of onlookers that had formed across the street. None of them moved.
    “Oh shit. What do we do?” Colin said.
    “I don’t know,” I said. “We have to stop them. We have to.”
    Colin nodded. He was huffing like he was out of breath. “How?”
    Inside, Ange screamed, “Let me go.”
    “Somebody call the police,” Jeannie called.
    “Already did. Five minutes ago,” a teenaged girl said.
    I scanned the street in both directions. Nothing. There was a bark of hoarse laughter inside the house. I took a few quick steps down the driveway.
    “I wouldn’t,” someone shouted from across the street.
    “There!” Jim shouted. A police car was heading toward us. We waved frantically at it; it seemed to be crawling.
    The cruiser’s side window opened. Cool air wafted out. “What’s going on?” a cop in dark sunglasses asked calmly, looking us up and down.
    We all answered at once, pointing at the house. Ange’s screams were muffled, as if someone was holding a hand over her mouth.
    “How many men?” the cop asked.
    “Three,” I said.
    “Armed?”
    I nodded. “At least two rifles. We have to hurry.”
    The cop shook his head. “Three armed men? You think I’m Wyatt Earp or something?”
    “Please. Please officer,” Jeannie said. “We’ll help you.”
    He shook his head again. “You shouldn’t of screwed around with them.” He rolled up the window.
    “Call for backup!” I shouted. The cruiser pulled away. Jeannie pounded on the back of it, pleading for him to stop.
    I looked at Colin. Sweat was pouring down his filthy face. “We have to go in there,” I said.
    Colin nodded. “I know.”
    “What do we have to fight with?” Jim asked. He was standing at my shoulder.
    “Here,” Jeannie said, holding kitchen knives and utensils. I grabbed a black-handled butcher knife, my hand shaking.
    There weren’t enough