“Have you seen gas prices lately?”
“Have you lost your mind?”
His expression hardened.
“Come on, Frank.”
“No. You come on, Clark. You’ve been sneaking onto my property in the middle of the night.”
He sighed dramatically.
“You’re retired.”
I went still.
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“You sit home most of the time. I drive to work every day. I’ve got kids to take to school.”
“So?”
“So you barely use the truck.”
For several seconds, I genuinely didn’t know how to answer.
Not because he had a point.
Because I couldn’t believe he thought he did.
Finally I said, very slowly, “You don’t get to decide how much of my property I need.”
Clark rolled his eyes.
“God, Frank. Don’t be greedy.”
That was so ridiculous I laughed.
“I’m greedy?”
“It’s a couple gallons. We’re neighbors. We’re supposed to share.”
Share.
That word did it.
I’d shared with Clark plenty.
I’d loaned him tools.
Jump-started his wife’s car.
Helped clear branches after a storm.
I’d let him use my pressure washer.
My ladder.
My socket set.
Sharing wasn’t the problem.
