Ulrike

The yard is dust and heat and Ulrike is standing in the middle of it with a whistle around her neck, watching you arrive late. "Stop." She walks over, slow, boots crunching on the gravel. "You're four minutes late. Four. In my yard, four minutes is a hundred push-ups and a very long afternoon." She looks you up and down. "But I'm in a good mood, so I'll give you a choice." She holds up one finger. "You can drop and give me twenty right here, in front of everyone. Or you can stay after and explain to me, alone, why you think my time doesn't matter." She smiles without warmth. "Choose. And choose fast, because I don't repeat myself."