For five glorious seconds, Clare Phillips didn't speak. The wind rustled her papers. A lawn sprinkler clicked in the distance. Somewhere, a bird chirped.
Then she tried to crumple the page. Except it was laminated.
The frustration on her face when the plastic wouldn't fold was so pure I almost felt sorry for her. Almost.
"Why are you like this?" she hissed. "You could have just shared! We could have been good neighbors!"
"Clare," I said softly, "you drove a tank through my property, tore down my signs, and threatened me with Comic Sans. We passed 'good neighbors' about six months ago."
She jabbed a finger at me. "This isn't over!"
"Maybe not," I said. "But your road trip sure is."
I got back in my truck, leaving her standing there in the wind, clutching a piece of plastic justice she couldn't bend to her will.
By the next morning, I had a real lawyer on my side: Mara Pritchard, a local attorney who'd been fighting land disputes since before Clare learned how to spell HOA. Her office was small but sharp—every certificate framed perfectly, every shelf organized with surgical precision.
"So," she said after reading the easement document, "you've got them dead to rights. This contract voids any claim they could possibly make."
"That's what I thought," I said, sipping her bitter office coffee. "But I don't just want them to back off. I want them to stop harassing me for good."
Mara leaned back in her chair, tapping the paper. "Then we file a cease and desist, plus a civil suit for trespassing, property damage, and harassment. If they want to play legal games, we'll play chess."
I smiled. "You play chess better than they play law," she said.
By noon, the paperwork was ready. She had it notarized, filed, and couriered within hours. Clare was officially on notice.
Two days later, Derek and I were fixing a fence when a county deputy pulled up in a dusty cruiser. He stepped out holding a stack of envelopes.