The next morning, Karen drove through again.

That was the last time she would ever make it across my property.

Before Sunrise

The gate company arrived Thursday evening.

I had everything checked beforehand.

The contractor was licensed.

The utility lines had been marked.

The county had confirmed the requirements.

The fire department received an emergency access code.

The sheriff's office received one too.

Rachel reviewed the signs.

Everything was documented.

Everything was legal.

Everything was mine.

At 4:15 a.m., the gate stood across the entrance.

Black steel.

Powder-coated.

Twelve feet wide.

Reinforced posts.

Keypad.

Security camera.

The new sign reflected under the first hint of dawn:

PRIVATE ROAD
NO HOA ACCESS
AUTHORIZED VEHICLES ONLY

I made coffee.

Then I waited.

At 6:43 a.m., Karen arrived.

Her headlights turned onto Briar Creek.

She approached exactly as she had every morning.

Then the headlights struck the gate.

Her SUV stopped.

For ten seconds, nothing happened.

Then—

Honk.

A second time.

Honk.

A third.

HOOOOONK.

I took another sip of coffee.

The gate didn't move.

Karen climbed out.

She wore dark slacks and a wool coat.

She walked to the keypad.

She pressed buttons.

Nothing happened.