He took another step, his boots crunching on the snow that had blown onto the floor.

I stepped out from behind the pantry door.

I drove my shoulder into his back, pushing him toward the table.

He grunted and stumbled forward, the crowbar clattering against the stove.

The kitchen table shifted with a loud scrape.

My glass of water fell and shattered on the floor.

Frank spun around, his face pale in the light of the stove.

He lunged for me, his large hands reaching for my throat.

I slashed the knife downward, catching the sleeve of his heavy coat.

The thick wool tore, but it did not stop him.

We hit the floor together, rolling into the broken glass.

A sharp pain shot through my knee as it hit the hard linoleum.

Frank was heavier than me, and he used his weight to pin my arms.

He squeezed my wrist until my fingers went numb.

The utility knife slipped from my hand and slid under the refrigerator.

“Leo wants to talk,” Frank growled.

His hot breath smelled of stale coffee.