Peaceful.
Predictable.
Entirely under my control.
Every morning, I drank coffee on the porch overlooking the ocean. I worked remotely when I wanted. Consulting. Two or three clients a year. I walked the beach when I needed space. I read books I’d been meaning to read for fifteen years.
I occasionally rented out the premium guest suite. The big one on the ground floor with its own entrance and a private deck facing the dunes. Only to carefully screened clients. Writers. A retired couple from Virginia who came every October. A marine biologist from Duke studying the sea turtles.
I’d built a life where nobody could barge through my door and tell me what I owed them.
Ezoic
Or so I thought.
At 10:30 the previous night, six bright headlights washed across my front windows.
I was in the living room. Reading. A blanket on my lap. A cup of chamomile tea going cold on the side table.
