I looked out the window at the moonlight glinting off the dusty road. "Something educational. Something humbling."
The next morning, Derek showed up in his old Ford truck, a thermos of coffee in one hand and a grin that said, "This is going to be fun."
"All right," he said, hopping out. "Tell me where you want the lesson dug."
We walked the length of the road, studying the curves and slopes like two men planning a sculpture instead of revenge. Finally, I pointed to a spot halfway down the trail, right after a blind bend where the hill dipped slightly.
"There," I said. "She hits that stretch doing at least thirty. She'll never see it coming."
Derek nodded approvingly. "How deep you thinking?"
"Deep enough for reflection," I said.
He chuckled. "Got it. Philosophical trench. My specialty."
We spent the rest of the day hauling out the old backhoe from his shed, greasing the joints, checking the hydraulics. The machine roared to life like a dragon awakening. By sundown, we had the first outline marked. The earth was dry, the air electric with that scent of dust and heat that only Texas summers can make. Every scoop of dirt that came up felt like reclaiming a piece of pride I'd lost to Clare's tires.
"Think she'll notice?" Derek asked as the trench deepened.
"Not until she's in it."
We both laughed, the sound bouncing off the hills. We didn't stop until the moon rose high, pale, and perfect over the horizon. By then, the trench was three feet wide, nearly four deep—enough to catch a heavy SUV, but not deep enough to do real harm. Just enough to make a point.
We covered it carefully with old plywood, packed dirt over it, and scattered loose twigs and grass to make it look natural. From a distance, it was flawless: just another patch of country road.
We stood there afterward, leaning on the backhoe, sipping cold beers and staring at our handiwork.
"Looks like a work of art," Derek said proudly.
"Modern rural installation," I agreed. "Titled: Consequences of Entitlement."