Then I called Karen.
"You're trespassing," I said when she picked up.
"We're improving the neighborhood," she answered. "A little cooperation would go a long way."
"Cooperation happens between equals," I said, "not between a deed and a committee."
She exhaled through her nose, her version of a laugh. "I'll send compliance over to take a look."
"Send a surveyor," I said, and hung up.
By lunchtime, the chain was cut and the sign was gone. In its place, zip-tied to my post, hung a pastel notice in cheerful font: Non-Compliance. Unauthorized restrictive device. Remove within 24 hours or be fined.
I took a photo of it, then another of the bootprints leading to the creek, then the sheared padlock glittering in the dirt. Paper can lie; pictures don't.
Neighbors started choosing sides the way people choose weather forecasts—whichever report flattered their plans. Hannah from two doors down texted: I'm with you. This is ridiculous. Darren from the cul-de-sac posted in the community forum: Bridges are meant to be crossed. Don't be selfish.
Miguel brought over coffee and a raised eyebrow. "They're bold," he said.
"They're bored," I said. "Bold gets you a statue. Bored gets you stupid."
Karen scheduled another meeting. I went out of respect for the few board members who still remembered we were neighbors. She had arranged the chairs in a circle, which is what people do when they plan to steamroll you and want it to look like a conversation. A projector splashed slides on the wall: Community Access Plan, Phase One. Photos of pickleball courts, families with perfect teeth, clip art of a creek without a bridge.
"Mike," she purred, "we recognize your contribution to the spirit of this community."
"Spirit is not binding," I said. "Surveys are."
She clicked to a slide labeled Easement Clarification and read a paragraph that sounded legal if you didn't listen. It cited a policy manual printed by a landscaping company and an excerpt from a state statute that applies to public subdivisions, not private parcels.
I let her finish, then placed a manila folder on the folding table like I was laying down a pair of aces. Inside were my warranty deed, the recorded plat, the county GIS printout, and a letter from the road commission chair confirming in very boring language that the public easement terminates at the end of the gravel lane and does not include private structures spanning natural watercourses.
Karen skimmed the first line, smiled wider, and slid the folder back like I'd offered her dessert. "We'll have counsel review," she said. "In the meantime, construction continues."
"In the meantime," I said, "trespass continues."