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THE ONE THING Norman Driver had never been able to get right was a convincing smile he didn’t mean. As soon as the young woman opened the door to the little house across the road from his construction site, Driver knew he was giving her a pretty flimsy smile, something completely lacking in warmth, something that failed to disguise the monstrousness in his being. A crocodile grin. She was unnerved by it. People usually were. She was a pretty young thing in her late twenties just starting to play housewife, and the noise complaint, he knew, had probably come from her desire to fit into the perfect new mommy role. A good mommy made noise complaints. She called the manager. She spoke to the principal. She posted the review and comments. Calling and complaining and commenting spoke of care and vigilance, of self-respect and family pride. Driver smiled and leaned a thick forearm on the doorframe.

“Mornin’, ma’am.”

“Can I help you?” The woman swiped her bangs in a way that was supposed to communicate that she was busy—there was laundry to be done, cookies to be made, Instagram posts to be scheduled. Somewhere in the house, a tub of toys was being emptied, the sound of small, hard parts cascading and clattering.

“I’m from the site across the street,” Driver said. “I understand we may have ruffled some feathers in the neighborhood by starting early this morning.”

“And yesterday morning,” the woman said.

“Yeah,” Driver said. “We’re so sorry to have disturbed you.”

“Well—”

“Disturbed you so bad, in fact, that you brought in the law,” Driver said. He let the words hang in the air, heavy with menace. “We must have really punctured your beauty sleep for you to have done that; breezed right by us and went direct to the sheriff. Didn’t even think to just wander over the road and speak to us yourself.”

“There’s no—I mean—” The woman gave a nervous laugh. “Who’s saying I’m the one who complained?”

“Me,” Driver said. “Call me psychic.”

“Well… well, you’re wrong,” the woman said and drew in a sharp breath, trying to steel herself. “I didn’t appreciate the noise but I—I would have just gone over there and told you guys how I felt, just like you said.”

“Good.” Driver grinned. “Good. Because going to the law like that without even giving us a warning, without even asking for an explanation… It’s almost aggressive.”

“Right.” The woman nodded.

“And when people are openly aggressive with me”—Driver shrugged—“I tend to get aggressive back. It’s just in my nature.”

A fat toddler rounded the corner to the tiled living room beyond and paused in the hallway. The child was long-lashed, wild-haired, and full-lipped in a way that made it completely androgenous. The T-shirt stretching taut over its belly read Feelin’ cute, might throw a tantrum later.

“Hey, little buddy,” Driver said.

The woman pulled the door closed a little, an automatic reaction, trying to protect her cub from the predator on the porch.

“I didn’t realize there were kids living on the street,” Driver said. “We’ve kept an eye out, but I’ll make sure the guys are aware. You know how construction sites can get. There’s a lot of noise, a lot of distraction, a lot of big trucks backing in and backing out.”

Driver saw his words register in the woman’s face. Her mouth puckered, her jaw locked.

“You wouldn’t want somebody small to go wandering,” Driver said. “And one of the guys doesn’t see. Those big trucks have terrible reversing vision.” He bent and put his hands on his knees, waved at the toddler in the hallway. “You like big trucks, little buddy?”

The woman shut the door on him. Driver’s icy, phony smile turned genuine as he headed back to the work site.