For several seconds, Juniper Hollow Drive went completely silent.
No barking dogs.
No children yelling.
No lawn mowers.
Nothing.
Just the faint rustle of cottonwood leaves in the warm Colorado evening and the soft electronic chimes of twenty different phones recording the moment.
Across from me stood Logan Whitmore, twenty-two years old, six-foot-two, broad through the shoulders, shirtless except for a black compression vest, his hands wrapped in red tape.
He smiled as though he had already won.
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