The accelerometer logged nineteen miles per hour in a reverse manoeuvre across a residential curb. That number was the whole case. Nineteen miles per hour is not a misjudgement. It is a person who has never once looked behind her because she has never expected anything to be in her way. Her insurer read the data, the trail footage, and the eleven violation notices she filed against me on the same mornings, and they declined the claim outright and reported the pattern.

The workers she sent to remove the bin were a landscaping crew who had been told it was HOA-owned property. They stopped the moment my neighbour Adaeze came out and told them otherwise, and their foreman gave a written statement that afternoon because he was furious at having been used.

The board meeting was in November. I brought nothing but a folder and I did not raise my voice. Fourteen households had received violations from Darlene in eighteen months, and eleven of them had simply paid rather than argue. The treasurer had been quietly uneasy for a year and finally said so out loud. She was removed by vote, thirty-one to four, and the association refunded every fine it had collected since her election, including mine.

She sold in the spring. I have no idea where she went and I have never looked.

The bin is still there, in the legal spot, doing nothing more remarkable than holding rubbish. Adaeze’s son asked me to help him build a soapbox car in June and we used the same accelerometer, which amused me more than it should have.

Rosalind would have handled all of this in about a week with a casserole and a firm conversation. I needed data. We each have our methods.

Eleven fines and not one apology, and what I wanted was never the money. I wanted one person with authority to look at the evidence and say plainly that I had not been the problem. A man is allowed to take up his own patch of kerb. It took me eighteen months and a reinforced steel shell to remember that.