Instead of traveling far, we checked into a hotel about forty minutes from home.
Saturday evening, Tom opened the camera feed on his laptop.
For nearly two hours, nothing happened.
Our backyard remained dark and silent.
I was beginning to think Lisa had been mistaken.
Then the gate opened.
One person stepped inside.
Then another.
Then two more.
They didn’t move cautiously.
They walked through our yard with the relaxed confidence of people who had done it many times before.
One person immediately removed the hot tub cover.
Another set down an insulated bag full of drinks and snacks.
Someone connected a phone to a portable speaker.
Music began playing.
Then all four climbed into our hot tub.
Tom and I sat completely still on the hotel bed.
Eventually, one of the people moved close enough to the camera for me to recognize his face.
Jim.
Our next-door neighbor.
The same Jim who had waved at us from his driveway every week for four years.
The same Jim who had borrowed Tom’s socket wrench the previous summer and politely returned it.
Then I recognized the woman beside him.
Lisa.
The woman who had knocked on our door and complained about the noise.
Their teenage children, Emma and Jake, were there too.
They were laughing, eating snacks, and relaxing as though they were in their own backyard.
For several seconds, neither Tom nor I spoke.
Finally, I whispered:
“Lisa.”
Tom stared at the screen.
“She came to our house.”
“I know.”
“She asked us to keep the noise down.”
“I know.”
And then I understood.
Lisa had never come over to complain.
She had come over to find out whether we knew.
Her nervousness at the door hadn’t been discomfort about confronting a neighbor.
She had been testing us.
When I told her we had been away that weekend, she realized we had no idea anyone had been using our yard.
Her complaint had been a cover.
She had been checking whether they had been caught.
Tom shut the laptop.
“We need to decide what we’re going to do.”
I nodded.
Because this had clearly been happening for far longer than one evening.
—
We considered confronting Jim and Lisa immediately.
We had video evidence.
We could walk next door, show it to them, and demand an explanation.
But I knew exactly what would happen.
They would apologize.
They would say they thought we wouldn’t mind.
They would claim it started innocently.
And within a few uncomfortable weeks, we would return to waving politely across the driveway.
That didn’t feel adequate.
They hadn’t used our hot tub once.
They had apparently been doing it for almost a year.
They brought food.
They brought drinks.
They played music.
They were comfortable enough to treat our backyard like an extension of their own property.
They had stopped worrying about being caught.
Tom and I made two decisions.
The first was simple.
He installed an automatic lock on the backyard gate that could only be opened using a code from our side.
Their access would end permanently.
The second idea was mine.
I had trained as a chemist before moving into regulatory compliance, so I knew enough about compounds and skin contact to choose something harmless.
I found a food-grade dye that was safe for skin and would gradually fade within a day or two.
After prolonged exposure, however, it would leave a clearly visible green tint on the skin.
Harmless.
Temporary.
But impossible to ignore.
Thursday evening, I added it to the hot tub water.
The following Friday, we once again made an obvious show of leaving.
This time, however, we parked several streets away and quietly returned home.
We sat in the kitchen watching the camera feed.
At 8:30 p.m., the gate opened.
Jim entered first.
Lisa followed.
Then Emma and Jake.
Same insulated bag.
Same portable speaker.
Same confident routine.
Jim pulled the cover off the hot tub as though he owned it.
They climbed inside.
For more than an hour, Tom and I watched.
Then Emma suddenly looked at her arm.
She said something to Jake.
He examined his own skin.
Lisa looked down.
Then Jim did the same.
Even through the camera feed, I could see the mood change instantly.
They were turning green.
They quickly climbed out and headed toward the gate.
Jim tried to open it.
Nothing happened.
He pulled harder.
Still locked.
He tried pushing, pulling, lifting.
The automatic lock held.
Tom stood.
“All right.”
We walked into the backyard.
Jim turned when he heard us.
His expression was almost impossible to describe.
He was standing in our yard, tinted green, unable to leave through the gate, trying to decide whether he should be angry or embarrassed.
