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I stayed quiet when my neighbor took things from my property.
I even tried to overlook it when she began using my electricity.
But the night I finally stopped allowing her to walk all over me, karma struck twice.
And the second blow was something she never saw coming.
Most mornings, my biggest concern was whether my tomatoes needed watering before breakfast.
At sixty-four, I preferred my life that way.
After enough surprises to fill one lifetime, thirty-two years in the same little suburban house had taught me to value ordinary days.
Then one morning, I poured my coffee, opened the electric bill, and discovered that ordinary had apparently disappeared without warning.
I stared at the amount.
Then I looked again.
“That can’t be right,” I said aloud, though my cat was the only one listening.
The bill was nearly twice what I normally paid.
Not ten or twenty dollars more.
Almost double.
I checked the account number.
Then I checked the meter reading.
Finally, I went outside to the utility box beside my garage and squinted at the numbers as though they might feel embarrassed and correct themselves.
They didn’t.
Something was very wrong.
And I was going to find out what.
