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 moved.

I intercepted his wrist mid-swing. My grip was precise. I applied torque against the joint.

CRACK.

There was a sickening sound of cartilage tearing. Derek screamed—a high, thin sound. The knife clattered to the floor.

I didn’t stop. I swept his legs, driving him face-first into the tile floor. I rode him down, my knee driving into his kidneys. I twisted his arm behind his back, pushing it up toward his neck until the shoulder joint was at the breaking point.

He thrashed, trying to bite, trying to buck.

“You threatened a civilian,” I whispered into his ear, my voice devoid of any humanity. “You threatened a pregnant woman. You are no longer a recruit. You are an enemy combatant.”

I applied a fraction more pressure. He shrieked.

“Dad!” Sarah cried out.

I froze. The red haze at the edge of my vision began to recede. I looked down at the man beneath me. I could snap his arm. I could crush his windpipe. It would be easy. It would be satisfying.

But I wasn’t at war. I was in a kitchen in Ohio.