I never told my son-in-law that I was the most feared Drill Sergeant in Marine history. He forced my pregnant daughter to scrub the floors while he played video games. “Miss a spot and you don’t eat,” he sneered. I couldn’t take it anymore. I kicked the power cord, shutting off his game. He jumped up, furious. “You crazy old fool!” Before he could blink, I had him pinned against the wall by his throat, feet dangling off the floor. “Listen closely, maggot,” I growled. “Boot camp starts now.”

I held him pinned.

“Sarah,” I said calmly, my breathing steady. “Go to the hall closet. Get the zip ties from my tool bag. The black ones.”

“Zip ties?” she asked, blinking.

“Yes. Then call 911.”

Sarah hesitated for a fraction of a second. She looked at the man she had married, the father of her child, pinned like a bug. Then she looked at me.

She walked past him without a glance.

“Yes, sir,” she said.

The flashing blue and red lights painted the living room walls in violent strobes.

Two officers stood in the center of the room, looking down at Derek. He was trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey, zip-ties securing his wrists and ankles. He was sobbing, snot running down his face, blabbering about being kidnapped and tortured.

One officer, a burly sergeant, looked at the zip ties.

“Military grade,” he noted. He looked at me. I was sitting in the armchair, sipping a glass of water.

“Retired Master Sergeant Frank Vance, USMC,” I replied.

The officer nodded respectfully. “Semper Fi, Sergeant.”

“Semper Fi.”