Ten minutes later they were gone. The only proof they’d been there was six dry rectangles on my wet concrete where the dew hadn’t settled.
I called the sheriff’s office that morning. A deputy named Coleman came out around noon, wrote down everything I said, and then told me something I didn’t want to hear.
“Mrs. Pruitt, unless they’re threatening you or damaging property, I can’t do much about it. And honestly?” He looked over at my driveway. “If Tyler Brannon’s out and running his mouth, I’d rather have them here than nobody.”
“You know them?”
“I know Dale,” he said. “He’s been sober nine years. Runs a muffler shop over in Hanceville. Rides with a bunch of old boys who do toy runs every Christmas.” He paused. “He also used to be the meanest drunk in Cullman County. So I guess I know both versions of him.”
