Seventeen. Funny how the number grew when they thought pressure would work.
“What’s your company address?” I asked.
She hesitated. “Four five seven eight Business Center Drive, Suite two ten.”
I pulled it up while she spoke. A UPS store.
“That’s a mailbox,” I said.
Silence stretched long enough to feel deliberate.
“Sir, failure to remit payment will result in escalation,” she finally said.
Click.
She hung up.
That evening I sat on the porch with a beer, watching the sun sink low, turning the grass gold. For a moment, it almost felt peaceful again.
Then a black Tesla rolled slowly along my fence line.
It stopped right across from me.
The driver’s window slid down. Polo shirt. Sunglasses. Chadwick.
He didn’t wave. Didn’t speak. Just sat there, phone lifted, taking pictures. My truck. My house. Me.
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