Kind

"You've ruined a lot of holidays," the voice from the shadows said (and he froze), "and looks like you're keeping it up through the new year." She stepped out into the paltry light of the carport and let him take a good look at her: white hair, small frame, thin, glasses. He laughed, and returned to shoving the metal rod down into the door to unlock it. "That's not your car and the damage you're causing costs people real money and heartache," she said. "Fuck you, Grandma," he hissed. "I'll be long gone before you can toddle back inside and call the cops." "I have no intention of calling the cops," she said but, this time, he looked up to find that she had somehow moved directly to the opposite side of the car without making a sound. "I'm warning you, Grandma," he spat out, feeling the lock give way. "I appreciate the warning," she whispered, and he stared up at her in disbelief as she squatted on the roof of the car above him, "but I believe some consequences are in order." He never saw what hit him. Although in her early 80s, Mei Liu was far from weak or frail; she'd trained as a guerrilla fighter in her youth, played on a woman's baseball team long before anyone cared about that, and had become an acupuncturist and chiropractor after her children had grown. She did, indeed, toddle back inside and call the police to alert them to an incident, but she recommended an ambulance be sent straight away. The dispatcher laughed knowingly and wished her a happy merry whatever. "And same to you!" she replied warmly, believing that people should try to be kind to each other.