A banner leaned against a tree.
COMMUNITY MEADOW PICNIC.
There was a little cartoon sun in one corner.
Flowers in the other.
I almost pulled over and stole the banner.
Instead, I drove home.
I spent the afternoon in the barn.
Swept the breezeway.
Checked waterers.
Repaired one gate hinge.
Stacked feed.
Work calmed me.
Sarah used to understand that.
When I got angry, she never told me to relax.
She gave me something that needed fixing.
“You can’t stay mad with a wrench in your hand,” she’d say.
She was wrong about that.
But she was right often enough.
That night, I sat alone at the kitchen table with chili and coffee.
The same enamel pot my mother had used when I was a kid sat on the stove.
I thought through the situation.
Call the sheriff?
Easy.
A deputy could warn Karen.
Maybe she would cancel.
Maybe she would pretend it had all been a misunderstanding.
Then she would try again later.
File for an injunction?
Possible.
Slow.
Expensive.
Confront her publicly?
She would love that.
Karen lived for audiences.
No.
What I needed first was proof.
I checked the cameras.
Made sure the signs were visible.
Made sure every property line was documented.
Then I went to bed.
At four thirty Sunday morning, I woke before the alarm.
I made coffee and walked outside.
Sunrise barely touched the eastern sky.
I checked the south fence.
Fresh shoe prints marked the dirt near one section.
Somebody had been there recently.
Scouting.
I stood over the prints for a while.
Then looked toward Willowbrook.
“Fine.”
At seven, Miguel arrived.
He climbed out of his truck carrying a breakfast burrito.
“You look angry.”
“I look handsome.”
“No.”
I showed him the screenshots.
He read them.
Then looked at me.
