My critique group picnic had been in full swing for an hour when I heard a horn honking repeatedly from the direction of my house. The honk had a familiar tone—it goes with a certain truck that’s been to my house far too often in the last year. The truck belongs to my plumber, Sam, who was not invited to this party.
I dashed up the slope from our firepit to the house, raced around the side, and skidded to a stop in the driveway. Sam’s enormous pickup truck had backed all the way down my driveway. His niece Samantha was driving a small forklift off the