Crack!
It was like thunder ripping through the valley. The plywood gave way beneath the weight of her two-ton suburban tank, and in an instant, the front end plunged straight down. The SUV nosedived into the trench, headlights disappearing, the back tires lifting off the ground before slamming down again. A puff of dust and airbag powder exploded through the open driver's window.
Clare's scream cut through the air, a high-pitched wail somewhere between shock and denial. The car's horn blared once, then died.
Derek nearly fell off his chair, laughing. I had to slap a hand over my mouth to keep quiet. From where we sat, the whole thing looked like a scene out of an action movie in slow motion, the world holding its breath as karma made its grand entrance.
For a few glorious seconds, Clare just sat there, stunned, covered in airbag dust, frozen like a statue of poetic justice.
Then, with a loud click, her door flew open. She stumbled out, clutching her phone like it was a weapon, screaming into the air: "Sabotage! You've put my life in danger! This is a criminal act!"
I nearly lost it when she tripped over her own yoga mat and dropped her iced latte into the trench. The splash of cold coffee across her shiny SUV was the final touch on the masterpiece.
Derek whispered, "You think she's going to call the cops?"
"She already has," I said, pointing.
Clare was on the phone, pacing furiously, throwing her free hand in the air like she was conducting an invisible orchestra of outrage.
Within fifteen minutes, a county sheriff's cruiser pulled up. Sure enough, Sheriff Cole Matthews stepped out—a tall man in his late fifties with a face permanently carved into "I've seen worse."
He walked over, adjusting his hat, scanning the scene. "Morning, ma'am," he said slowly. "Everything all right here?"
"All right?!" Clare shouted. "Do I look all right?! This man set a trap! A trap! My car is destroyed! I could have died!"
Sheriff Cole looked at the trench, at the SUV, then at me and Derek standing behind our hay bales, trying to look innocent. He sighed the kind of long, heavy sigh that only lawmen and parents of teenagers know.
"Mr. Rogers," he said calmly. "You want to explain what's going on here?"
I nodded. "Sure do, Sheriff. That right there," I said, pointing at the trench, "is a soil erosion project. Been planning it for weeks. This here's private property, and she's been trespassing every day for months."