Boots on. The spare boots. My good ones are in the mudroom, wrapped in a towel, soaking in a vinegar solution I mixed at midnight. Green sparkles still embedded in the leather grain. Every time I look at them my tusks ache from clenching.
I wheel the GX-9 to the northeast corner of the front yard. Starting position. Feet shoulder-width apart. Hands at ten and two on the handlebar. Spine straight. Shoulders dropped. Breath in through the nose, out through the mouth.
First pass.
Push forward. Three-count stride, heel to toe, each step landing on the invisible grid lines I've walked so many times the grass grows in slightly different shades along the tracks. The blades engage with a clean whir, trimming the top eighth-inch I don't need to trim but am trimming anyway because this is my yard and my yard obeys me.
Turn at the property edge. Ninety-degree pivot. Left foot plants, right foot sweeps. The mower arcs without breaking the line. Warboss Krullak would have approved of the footwork. Twelve years in the Bloodmaw regiment and the thing that stuck wasn't the axe drills or the shield walls. It was the turns. Economy of motion. No wasted energy. Every movement serving purpose.
Second pass. Parallel. Two inches of overlap with the first, because consistency demands it.
Third pass.
The daisy is six inches now.
I can see it from here. Pushing up through the hairline crack in my walkway like a small green middle finger. Bright white petals, cheerful yellow center, absolutely no right to exist in poured concrete.
Fourth pass. I grip the handlebar harder. The GX-9 protests with a slight vibration change and I ease off, because the machine is not my enemy. The machine is my ally. The machine understands straight lines.
Fifth pass. Pivot. Push. The grass falls in uniform ribbons behind the deck. My breathing settles into the rhythm. In for three steps, out for three. The morning air is cool and carries the scent of cut grass and order.
Across the fence, something crashes.
I don't look.
A muffled voice says a word I won't repeat.
I don't look.
Another crash. Glass this time. A yelp. Then, distinctly, the sound of dirt hitting a window from the inside.
Sixth pass. My jaw is a locked vault. My eyes are fixed on the grass line ahead of me. Straight and true and mine.
Her front door bangs open. Footsteps on the porch. The crinkle of paper being read. A gasp that carries across thirty feet of property line with theatrical clarity.
"Seventy-five DOLLARS?"
Seventh pass. I allow myself excellent posture.
"For FERTILIZER? It's ORGANIC!"
I pivot. Clean. Sharp. Krullak's ghost nods in approval.
"And you nailed it to my DOOR? There's a HOLE in my door now!"
Eighth pass. I keep my breathing measured, my stride even, my cutting line geometrically precise. The mower hums. The grass submits. All is well on my side.
"Flynn! Flynn, I can see you! You're mowing in a straight line and ignoring me, which is very mature!"
Ninth pass.
"Your lawn doesn't even need mowing! It's like a putting green already! You're spite-mowing!"
I am not spite-mowing. I am performing scheduled maintenance on my personal sanctuary, which has been violated by enchanted agricultural runoff and the presence of an unauthorized daisy.
Tenth pass. The front yard is done. Every blade uniform. Every line parallel. The GX-9 purrs with satisfaction as I kill the engine and stand in the silence of a job well executed.
The daisy is seven inches now.
