Five minutes later, my phone buzzed: We'll handle this formally. — S.C.
Great. I love forms. They stack nicely in court. — B.R.
The week turned into a metronome: day work, evening quiet, night alerts—footsteps testing the gates, a flashlight beam skimming my sign, the bell ringing once and then being apparently glared at into silence. I saved every clip, labeled each one with timestamps that would make a prosecutor weep with gratitude.
On Thursday, while tightening a loose hinge on the boathouse, I caught movement at the edge of the birches. Not Skyler. A man I didn't recognize: early forties, starched polo, phone out. He filmed the dock in slow, reverent pans like a nature documentary about rare habitats. When he reached the gate, he zoomed in on the lock, the hinges, the screws. He wasn't casing; he was cataloging.
"Can I help you?" I called.
He jolted and pasted on a smile that might have been practiced in a mirror. "Oh, hi there! Beautiful morning. I'm Logan Pierce, Water Use Subcommittee."
"How many subcommittees does it take to change a lightbulb around here?" I asked.
"Just one," he said, not getting the joke. "But it must file a memorandum."
"Here's mine," I said. "Please leave."
He left, but not before angling his phone over the top rail to snag a shot of the deck. I raised my own phone and took a photo of him taking a photo. Some exchanges are their own reward.
That night, I sat on the dock with a single lantern and watched mosquitoes hesitate at the glow. On my phone, I opened the Ghost control app: battery at 96%, GPS online, geofence armed, loop mode tested and ready. Not a weapon—a demonstration. A mirror held up to entitlement that would make entitlement dizzy.
I could have called the sheriff then. I have a good, practical relationship with the deputies; people who spend their lives stepping into other people's disasters tend to respect a man who keeps his own house in order. But there's an art to timing. If you call too early, the lesson never lands. If you call too late, you're cleaning up a mess you didn't need.
So, I set the hook and waited for the fish that thought it owned the lake.
Friday morning, the bell rang twice. By the time I got to the gate, no one was there—just the traitor ruts of sneaker prints and a faint suggestion of perfume trying to conquer the smell of pine. A new flyer had been wedged under the latch: Community Sunset Cruise: Reviving a Lakeview Tradition. Stock photo of a pontoon boat. Date: Sunday. Location: Serenity Cove Dock.
That was my dock's old nickname on their group page, apparently. It wouldn't be on the next draft. I took a Sharpie and added "AT THE MARINA" in block letters so big even a drone could read them.