I felt the shift immediately, that familiar tension that comes when a situation stops being about the surface issue and becomes something else entirely. My first instinct was to argue, to push back, to match his tone with something just as sharp. But standing there, looking at the perfect symmetry of his yard and the way he guarded it like it was more important than anything else, I realized arguing wouldn’t change anything.
“Alright,” I said, turning toward my truck. “I’ll move it.”
“Make sure you do,” he muttered, still holding his phone like he was disappointed he wouldn’t get to use it.
As I opened the driver’s door, I noticed movement across the street. A small shack—one I hadn’t paid much attention to before—sat in quiet contrast to everything around it. The paint was worn, the porch slightly uneven, but there was someone sitting there, watching.
An older man.
