“Then explain where my gas is going.”
There was a short pause.
“You got teenagers nearby?”
“No.”
“Anybody else driving the truck?”
“No.”
Another pause.
Then he said, “Buy a camera.”
So I did.
Nothing elaborate.
Just a small security camera that connected to my phone.
I positioned it where it could clearly see the driveway and Earl’s fuel cap.
The following morning, I made coffee, sat at my kitchen table, and opened the recording.
For a while, there was nothing.
A cat.
A car passing.
Tree branches moving beneath a streetlight.
Then the timestamp reached 1:17 a.m.
A man walked onto my property.
I leaned toward the screen.
“No…”
I recognized him immediately.
Clark.
My neighbor from three houses down.
Clark was around forty-five.
Married.
Two children.
Good job in insurance.
Fairly new SUV.
And somehow he talked about money as though bankruptcy was permanently waiting at his front door.
He had borrowed things from me for years.
A ladder.
Socket set.
Extension cord.
Pressure washer.
Once, even my red gas can.
Getting those things back was another matter.
I’d ask, “Clark, still have my ladder?”
“Yeah, Frank. I’ll bring it over.”
A week would pass.
