My kids were late for school every morning because my neighbor blocked our driveway on purpose — so on the fourth Monday I quit knocking and taught her a lesson the whole street still talks about.

The letter came Monday. City's Neighborhood Relations office. Official letterhead, case number across the top.

It informed us that a complaint had been filed alleging harassment and intimidation by the residents of our address toward a neighbor.

Mark read it in the hallway. Twice.

"Harassment," he said. "We knocked on her door four times in three weeks."

"I know."

"And towed a car that was illegally blocking our driveway. Which we were allowed to do."

"I know, Mark."

He set the letter on the side table, right next to the note she'd pushed through our door. The two of them sat there together.

"So what do we do?"

"We respond. In writing. Formally. With every single thing we've got."

---

I spent that night at the kitchen table with the notebook, the photos, the write-ups from work, and both of Sharon's notes — the windshield one from June and the one from after the tow.

I typed a response to the city. Four pages. Every date, every time, every photo called out by file name. I attached the letter from my job confirming I'd been late and had been spoken to by my manager. I attached a photo of Sharon's note. I gave them Eleanor's name as a witness and asked whether her statement could come in separately.

I sent it at 11:14 p.m.

---

Eleanor called the next morning. "I got a letter too."

"What?"

"Different one. As a named witness, looks like. They want a statement." Her voice didn't waver. "I've got records going back four years. The Guerreros left me copies of everything before they moved. I have the dates she blocked the handicap spot. I have photos."

I held the phone very still. "You've been keeping records for four years?"

"I didn't know what I'd ever do with them," she said. "I just knew I should."

---

The city assigned a caseworker. Mr. Barrett. He called Wednesday afternoon, professional and flat, the way people sound when they've heard two versions of something and haven't landed on either one yet.

"I want to be clear," he said, "that we take every complaint seriously. Including the one filed against you."

"Understood."

"I've read your written response and reviewed the photos. I do have to ask — was there any verbal confrontation beyond the conversations you've described?"

"No. I knocked on her door four times over three weeks. Every conversation is in my statement."

"And the tow — you arranged that yourself?"

"Yes. The car was across our private driveway. I called a licensed company. I have the invoice."

A pause. "You have the invoice."

"I have everything, Mr. Barrett."

A longer pause. "I see. I'll also be speaking with the witness you named. Anything else you want to add right now?"

"Yes. A letter addressed to my family showed up in a neighbor's mailbox three streets over. And our recycling bin disappeared the week after the tow. I've reported both separately. I want them on the record here too."

Silence. "I'll note that."

---

That night, Sharon's porch light stayed on past midnight. I wasn't watching for it. I just saw it when I went to lock up.

Mark came up behind me at the window. "She's still awake."

"Yeah."

"You think she knows how much we have?"

I thought about the four years of records in Eleanor's spare room. The Guerrero files. The timestamped photos. The invoice. The letter from work. The case number now stapled to all of it.

"No," I said. "I don't think she does."

Then my phone lit up on the sill. A new number — not Eleanor's, not anybody in my contacts.