To her, I wasn’t a neighbor. I was a problem she could solve by being louder than the truth.
One of the officers—tall, broad-shouldered, the kind who looked like he’d done this job long enough to spot trouble before it arrived—held a palm out toward her.
“Ma’am,” he said, measured, “we need to establish what’s happening. You reported a trespass?”
“Yes!” she snapped, shaking the papers. “He’s on HOA land. He’s refusing to leave. He’s been harassing residents—”
“I’m standing on my own driveway,” I said, quietly.
She didn’t even look at me. She was staring at the officer, like the rest of us were props in her performance.
Neighbors whispered. Somebody’s screen glinted in the sun.
The officer turned slightly, giving me half his attention while keeping her in his peripheral vision.
“Sir,” he said, “do you live here?”
“I do.”
