There she stood, floodlit in my driveway, her charging cable coiled around her arm, caught in the act in front of a dozen witnesses under a sign that said, in plain letters, that this outlet was monitored and metered and hers to use only with permission. A neighbor asked, loudly, why Bianca was plugged into the widow’s house. Another muttered that she’d wondered where the extension cord ran to at night. Bianca opened her mouth to do what she always did, to twist it so I was the greedy one, but this time the sign spoke before she could, and the crowd had already read it.

I walked out calmly, tea still in hand, and did not shout. I simply held up my phone and showed the little group the usage log the smart outlet had recorded over the previous weeks, kilowatt by kilowatt, night by night, adding up to almost exactly the amount my bill had doubled by. I had the numbers. I had the dates. I had, now, the entire neighborhood as witnesses. Bianca’s face went from indignant to pale as she realized that the “few dollars” she’d laughed about was documented theft, and that she’d just announced it to everyone she lived beside.

I told her, in front of all of them, that I had two options. I could send the metered log and photos to the police as evidence of electricity theft, which is a real crime, or she could reimburse me for every dollar the log showed, plus the electrician’s bill for the new outlet, and never touch my property again. I said it kindly, which somehow made it land harder. She paid me within the week, in cash, at my front door, unable to meet my eyes, because the whole street now knew exactly what she was.

The garden gnome reappeared on my lawn a few days later, and my lawn mower found its way back to my garage, both without a word. Bianca installed her own charger in her own garage that month, which she could have afforded all along. She does not speak to me now, which suits me fine. But the more surprising thing was the neighbors. Two of them stopped by to tell me they’d had their own quiet run-ins with Bianca’s borrowing habits over the years and had never known how to handle it. We started looking out for one another after that. I am a sixty-three-year-old widow living alone, but I am not alone, and I am certainly not an easy mark. Sometimes the best way to teach a lesson is not to raise your voice. It is to install a sign, keep the receipts, and let the person teach it to herself in front of everyone.