“Look, Chief Ass Burn, we got off on the wrong foot because you are arrogant and rude and like to throw your weight around”—I dropped my eyes to his bowling ball gut—“but the truth is that I don’t want to talk to you at all, so we need to avoid each other.”

I turned and left, and he grabbed my arm and said, “Now, slow down, little lady, we’re gonna talk this out.”

I felt his sweaty, clingy fingers, and this roar of disgust and anger came over me. Who was he to touch me, to restrain me? I didn’t give him permission. He could touch me because he’s a man and he wants to? He’s entitled to that? He can hold me back because he sometimes wore a uniform? He can force a conversation because he wants the conversation to take place, regardless of what I want?

“Let go of me,” I semi-shouted, yanking my arm from his claws. I turned and accidentally on purpose flung my entire root beer float on his shirt, too darn bad. “Don’t ever touch me again.”

Maeve Biller, twenty-nine years old and an artist, shook her head. “Nice, Evie. I saw the chief grab you, and you fought back. You aren’t allowed to grab women, do you know that, Chief Ass Burn?”

“Well done,” Mrs. Liu said, her white curls bouncing about in her ponytail. “When I was younger, we used hatpins to get rid of frisky men, but the root beer float worked, too. Are they still giving them away?”

And Bo Proudfoot, a geologist and author, glared at the chief and said, “What the hell’s wrong with you? You can’t put your hands on a woman like that.”

“I want to speak to Evie,” he huffed, wiping his shirt and glaring at me. “Privately.”

“I don’t want to speak to you.” I walked past him but not before I heard him say, “You’re gonna regret that, Evie.”

“I heard that!” Maeve Biller said. “That was a threat! Why is it that men who grab women then feel like they can threaten the woman when she protests? Why is it that when men get angry at women who rebuff them they feel like they can take revenge or retaliate? Why do you think that is, Chief Ass Burn? What gives you the right to threaten Evie just because she doesn’t want your hands on her?”

“I heard it, too,” Mrs. Liu croaked out. “You told Evie she was going to regret emptying her root beer float on you when you grabbed her without her permission. You deserved it. If I had a hatpin, I would have used it on your crotch. Poke, poke!”

“I heard it,” Bo Proudfoot said. “And I am reporting you.”