I like my kitchen.
I like to eat and I like to cook.
Digestion is my favorite form of exercise.
I am comfortable there.
Or I used to be.
Until the guy with the gun pointed at my head got between me and the back door. Both back doors – the one to the back yard and the one to the garage. That’s gonna play hell with your comfort zone, not to mention your appetite.
Backed up against the counter with no place to go. The drain didn’t seem to be an option.
My husband, Tim, has a weird ability to talk to me inside my head. We can’t explain it and we no longer try.
Tim was screaming inside my head for me to duck, to fall down, to strip, to do whatever was necessary to keep the guy with the gun talking. He was on his way with John, the local detective, lights flashing and siren screaming.
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