Her face reddened.
“There. That attitude. That is exactly the problem with you.”
“What attitude?”
“You think because you can wave papers around, nobody else has rights.”
I almost laughed at the irony.
Instead I said, “Get the mud off my property.”
“I’m not touching it again.”
“You just put it there.”
“No, I didn’t.”
That stopped me.
“What?”
Patricia looked directly at me.
“You can’t prove I dumped anything.”
I stared at the shovel in her hands.
Then at the cart.
Then at the mud dripping from both.
“Patricia.”
“You came outside and found me standing here.”
“With a shovel.”
“I was trying to move it.”
“You were trying to move it?”
“Yes.”
“So now you’re helping me?”
“I came over because I saw the mess.”
“At five-thirty in the morning?”
“I wake up early.”
“And brought a garden cart?”
Her eyes narrowed.
“You need to stop interrogating me.”
“I’m asking you to leave my property.”
“You don’t own the drainage easement.”
“We are not standing in a drainage easement.”
“That is exactly what I mean. You don’t understand property law.”
I looked toward the walkway.
“We’re standing beside my garage.”
She stepped closer.
“You think this is funny?”
“No.”
“You’ve been making me look crazy to everyone.”
“I haven’t been talking about you.”
“That’s a lie.”
“I sent the HOA photographs after you blocked the drainage swale.”
“You humiliated me.”
“You installed edging across a drainage path.”
“You always have an answer.”
“That’s because we keep discussing things that can be checked.”
She took another step.
I noticed then that she was breathing hard.
This was no longer a useful conversation.
I raised one hand.
“Patricia, go home. I’ll deal with the mud and send the video to whoever needs it.”
She stopped.
“What video?”
I pointed toward the porch.
Her eyes followed my finger.
The camera sat beneath the eave.
Small.
White.
Visible.
Patricia stared at it.
Then she looked back at me.
The color left her face.
I said nothing.
For the first time that morning, neither did she.
Then she looked toward the garage.
The second camera was above the door.
Her eyes moved back to me.
“That camera records?”
“Yes.”
“Audio?”
“Yes.”
Her grip tightened on the shovel.
“You recorded me without permission?”
“It records my front yard and porch.”
“You can’t record private conversations.”
“We’re standing outside my house.”
“You didn’t tell me.”
“The camera is visible.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“I’m not arguing camera law with you at six in the morning.”
Her expression hardened again.
“Delete it.”
“No.”
“I said delete it.”
“No.”
Patricia dropped the shovel.
For one second, I thought she was finished.
Then she reached into the cart.
She grabbed a double handful of mud.
I saw the movement but did not understand what she intended until she threw it.
The first handful struck my chest and left shoulder.
Wet clay slapped across my sweatshirt and neck.
Some hit my jaw.
I stepped backward.
“Patricia!”
She grabbed another handful.
I raised my arm.
Mud hit my forearm and sprayed across the garage door.
Then she turned and ran.
Not gracefully.
The wet grass was slick, and Patricia nearly lost a shoe as she crossed my yard toward the street. She recovered, ran past the end of the driveway, and headed toward her house.
I did not chase her.
That was important.
I was angry enough to want to.
Instead, I stood beside the garage covered in mud and watched her disappear behind her hedge.
Then I looked up at the camera.
The small status light remained on.
Everything had been recorded.
The dumping.
The argument.
The denial.
The moment she saw the camera.
The mud hitting me.
All of it.
I went inside through the garage and locked the door.
My first call was not to the HOA.
It was to the non-emergency number for the sheriff’s office.
The dispatcher asked whether anyone was injured.
“No.”
“Any weapons?”
“Shovel, but she didn’t swing it at me.”
“Is she still on your property?”
“No.”
“Do you know her?”
“Yes. Neighbor.”
“What happened?”
I started with the mud.
Then reached the part where she threw it.
The dispatcher paused.
“She threw mud at you?”
“Yes.”
“Did it strike you?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have any video?”
“Yes.”
“How clear?”
I looked at the playback on my phone.