Young Squatters
“didn’t even begin to describe what she felt toward Nick. She frankly blamed the entire situation on him. If he hadn’t sent Sarah home, she could have stopped the intruders. If he would ever answer his phone when she called, she could make it to her Pilates class on time and everything would be fine. If he wasn’t such a workaholic, if he would just listen to her, if he had the sense of a rock—she stopped herself, trying to calm herself. Her toes and fingers had gone numb with adrenaline. S...he’d had enough of this young man and his smug little grin. He knew what he was doing was wrong. He just had to. The little woman he had in the house--in her house, for God’s sake!--knew something, too. She could see it in both of their faces, but the officer offered her no help whatsoever, simply because she hadn’t changed her address on her driver’s license when they had moved here, a decade ago.
And Nick; Nick couldn’t even come home to help her with these welfare ruffians. They tried to come off as middle-class, hardworking citizens, but Nora had known those people all her life, having grown up in that environment, and she knew that they surely didn’t belong to that group. The boy had a stain on his white polo shirt and his khakis were about an inch too short for his long legs. The girl didn’t even play the part at all; she was trash, he was trash, and the trash needed to be taken out. Is this really what the world had come to? Where squatters could break into a home and call it their own, not having to work for anything, having everything—including a million dollar home—handed right to their grubby little hands? She didn’t think so, not in her world, at least.MoreLess
And Nick; Nick couldn’t even come home to help her with these welfare ruffians. They tried to come off as middle-class, hardworking citizens, but Nora had known those people all her life, having grown up in that environment, and she knew that they surely didn’t belong to that group. The boy had a stain on his white polo shirt and his khakis were about an inch too short for his long legs. The girl didn’t even play the part at all; she was trash, he was trash, and the trash needed to be taken out. Is this really what the world had come to? Where squatters could break into a home and call it their own, not having to work for anything, having everything—including a million dollar home—handed right to their grubby little hands? She didn’t think so, not in her world, at least.MoreLess
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