“They don’t need to steal it all at once,” his father had said. “They take inches. Then feet. Then one day you wake up and someone’s parked on your life like it’s public space.”
Back then, Caleb had thought it was just stubbornness.
Now, standing in his kitchen with yellow parking lines glowing under the porch light, it felt like a prophecy.
He didn’t sleep much.
Every time a car door slammed outside, it pulled him halfway out of whatever shallow rest he managed. Around 3:00 a.m., he gave up completely, made coffee, and sat at the table with the documents spread out like a war map.
By 5:30, he had a plan.
Not loud.
Not messy.
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