New SUV.

Nice watch.

Annual vacations to Florida.

He wasn’t desperate.

Clark was simply cheap.

Not careful-with-money cheap.

The type of cheap that gradually becomes a personality.

I had learned that over the years.

He once borrowed my extension ladder.

Three months later, I had to ask for it back.

He looked irritated that I wanted my own property.

Then came my pressure washer.

My chainsaw.

Wheelbarrow.

Socket set.

Two sockets disappeared.

Ellen had always encouraged me not to fight about it.

“Let it go, Frank. It isn’t worth ruining peace between neighbors.”

So I let things go.

Even after she died.

Partly because keeping peace had been important to her.

But gas was different.

Clark wasn’t borrowing anything.

He was sneaking onto my property in darkness and stealing from me.

Then carefully replacing the cap so I wouldn’t notice.

What bothered me wasn’t the price.

Maybe fifteen or twenty dollars each week.

I could afford that.

What bothered me was what the act said.

Clark had looked at an old widower with an old truck and decided I was someone he could take from.

Quiet.

Alone.

Too old to notice.

Or too weak to object.

I replayed the video.

Watched him replace the cap.

And something inside me that had been asleep since Ellen died began waking up.

I should have called Katie.

Instead, I pulled on my shoes and walked straight across the lawn.

It was around seven.

Clark answered his door holding toast.

The second he saw me, something flashed across his face.

He knew.

Then he smiled.

“Frank! You’re up early.”

I didn’t return the smile.

“Have you been stealing gasoline from my truck?”

His expression changed.

“I have camera footage, Clark. You walked onto my driveway at two in the morning with a hose.”

For a moment, he said nothing.

Then he laughed.

Actually laughed.

“Oh, come on, Frank.”

My jaw tightened.

“So you admit it?”

“I take a little.”

“A little?”

“Gas prices are ridiculous.”

He leaned against the doorway.

“And honestly, you’re retired. You hardly drive anywhere. I have work. Kids. School runs. You’re letting that fuel sit there while I actually need it.”

I stared at him.

“It belongs to me.”

Clark rolled his eyes.

“You’re being greedy.”

That sentence almost impressed me.

He was stealing fuel from a seventy-year-old widower and somehow I was selfish.

“It’s a couple gallons,” he continued. “We’re neighbors. Neighbors share.”

“Sharing requires asking.”

“Would you have said yes?”

“No.”

Clark shrugged.

“There you go.”

Then he looked over his shoulder.

“I’ve got to get my kids to school. We’ll talk later.”

He closed the door.

In my face.

I stood on his porch.

Through the door, I heard one of his children ask,

“Who was that?”

Clark answered,

“Just the neighbor being weird.”

Just the neighbor.

Nobody important.

I walked home.

Made another pot of coffee.

And sat at my kitchen table.

I considered calling the police.

Technically, I had everything needed.

Video.

Timestamp.

Clear face.

Repeated theft.

But then I pictured what came next.

Police knock on Clark’s door.

He gets a warning.

Maybe a fine.

Then for the next ten years, I live beside a man telling the neighborhood some unstable old widower called the police because of “a little gas.”

Clark would make himself the victim.

People like Clark are very talented at that.

I didn’t want to hurt him.

I didn’t want to damage his vehicle.

I didn’t want to create anything dangerous.

I simply wanted one thing.

I wanted Clark to feel what it was like to be exposed.

So I finally called Katie.

When I finished telling her about the confrontation, she went quiet.

“He called you greedy?”

“Yes.”

“And shut the door in your face?”

“Yes.”

Another pause.

“Okay.”

The way she said it made her sound like a military commander.

“We’re going to handle this differently.”

She came Saturday morning.

We sat at my kitchen table with coffee and a notebook.

“First,” she said, “we save everything.”

She downloaded the footage.

Then discovered the camera had recorded Clark on three separate nights.

Three dates.

Three clips.

Three trips across my lawn with his red gas container.

She backed everything up.

“Airtight,” she said.

Then she installed a second small camera facing Clark’s porch.

“For later.”

I raised an eyebrow.

She smiled.

That afternoon, we prepared our surprise.

Ellen had loved making homemade holiday decorations and dyes.

Some of her old supplies were still stored in the garage.

Among them was a very strong blue coloring concentrate.

There was also an old novelty stink spray my son had once given me as a joke.

Completely harmless.

Absolutely horrible smelling.

Katie and I packed both into an ordinary gift box protected by a plastic liner.

Inside, I placed a note.

THIS IS WHAT YOU HAVE BEEN TAKING FROM ME EVERY NIGHT.

NOW EVERYONE KNOWS.

— YOUR GREEDY NEIGHBOR, FRANK.

Attached were three photographs.

Clark beside my truck.

Clark siphoning gasoline.

Clark carrying the red container home.

We wrapped everything in cheerful paper and put a bow on top.

“Grandpa,” Katie said, staring at the finished package, “Grandma would think this was ridiculous.”

“She’d tell me to forgive him.”

Katie grinned.

“And secretly love every second.”

We waited.

Two nights later, the driveway camera sent an alert shortly after two in the morning.

I stood beside my bedroom window.

There he was.

Clark.

Again.

Hose into my tank.

Red container filling.

I could have shouted.

Instead, I watched.

This time I wasn’t angry.

Because I knew something he didn’t.