I crouched by the outlet under the porch railing. It wasn't warm. Not yet. But there were faint scratches on the plastic, and the earth beneath had impressions like something heavy—maybe a reel of cable had been dragged across it.
A normal person might have gone straight to the police. But I'm not exactly wired that way. I wanted to know who. I wanted to know how long. And more than anything, I wanted to catch them red-handed so there would be no denial, no excuses, no oh, sorry, misunderstanding.
So, I planned a stakeout.
The following weekend, instead of parking in my usual spot near the cabin, I pulled off the road about a quarter-mile back, tucked behind a line of spruce trees. I hiked quietly up the old logging trail that curved behind my property, and settled in where I had a clear view of the driveway. I brought coffee, binoculars, a flashlight, and more stubborn determination than common sense.
Morning came slow, fog curling like smoke through the branches. Birds chattered in the canopy. For a while, I wondered if I'd made it all up in my head, that maybe it was a faulty meter or some stupid mistake I'd overlooked.
Then, a white SUV rolled slowly up my gravel driveway.
I froze.
The woman stepping out was around her mid-40s. Blonde hair frizzed into a humidity halo, big sunglasses, and a posture that screamed, I own the world. She looked around like someone checking for witnesses rather than enjoying the view. Then she walked briskly to the side of the cabin, opened her trunk, and pulled out a massive orange extension cord, the commercial kind you use for power tools. She plugged it into my outlet like she was plugging into her phone charger. No hesitation, no shame, no guilt. She'd done this many times before.
I felt my pulse hammer in my chest as I climbed quietly down the trail, anger and adrenaline mixing into something sharp. My boots hit the gravel and I strode toward her, not yelling yet, just moving fast enough that she didn't notice until I was almost on top of her.
"What do you think you're doing?"
The woman spun around, startled at first, but then unbelievably her expression twisted into annoyance. "Excuse you," she snapped. "You can't just sneak up on people like that."
"I'm the owner of this cabin," I said, pointing at the cord. "And you are stealing my electricity."
"I have every right to use this outlet," she shot back as if reciting some personal scripture. "This is a mountain community. We share resources."
"No," I said, "we don't. Unplug that cord now."
She folded her arms like a child refusing vegetables. "I've been using this electricity for weeks. I need it more than you. My power got shut off. How heartless are you?"
I stared at her, unable to believe the level of entitlement pouring out of her like a broken faucet. "Your power bill isn't my problem. You are trespassing and you are committing theft."