More swaying.
I haul myself upright, brush the clover from my overalls, and go back for the table. It takes me four tries, two rest breaks, andwhat might technically qualify as a swear word I invented on the spot to get it onto the porch. The wrought iron scrapes my palm raw. The overgrown grass hides a sprinkler head that jabs my ankle bone with the precision of an acupuncturist who hates me.
But the bistro set sits on the porch now. Crooked, surrounded by hostile plants, listing slightly left with the rest of the house.
I stand in the middle of my wild yard, breathing hard, covered in dirt and scratches and sweat, and grin so wide my cheeks ache.
The moonvine yanks the truck's side mirror clean off.
"That's coming out of my deposit."
I'm elbows-deep in the truck bed, negotiating with the moonvine, when the ground shakes.
Not an earthquake. Footsteps. Heavy, deliberate, evenly spaced footsteps that vibrate through the truck's metal floor and up through my knees. Each one lands with the precision of a metronome. I extract myself from the moonvine's clutches, leaving it three of my hair ties as a peace offering, and turn around.
A mountain walks toward me.
No. A mountain wearing cargo shorts and a faded t-shirt walks toward me. Moss-green skin stretches over shoulders wide enough to require their own zip code. A jaw like a granite shelf. Arms that could bench-press my truck and probably have strong opinions about it. He's got to be six-seven, maybe six-eight, and every inch of him radiates the energy of a man whose morning routine involves ironing his socks.
He stops at the exact point where my overgrown lawn meets his property line.
His lawn.
Oh.
His lawn looks like it was trimmed by tiny angels using laser-guided scissors. Each blade of grass stands at what I instinctively know is a regulation height. The edges along his walkway are so sharp they could draw blood. His hedges form perfect geometric shapes. His flower beds contain exactly three varieties of flowers, planted in symmetrical rows, color-coordinated from light to dark.
It's beautiful. It's also deeply, profoundly unsettling, like a lawn that would report you to the authorities for sneezing on it.
He holds something in one massive green hand. A laminated sheet of paper. In the other hand, he grips custom edging shears with the casual familiarity of a knight holding a sword he's named.
"You have sap on your shirt," I say, because apparently my brain has decided that's an appropriate opening line for a conversation with the largest person I've ever seen.
His jaw tightens. He glances down at the smear of green across his polo.The sap glistens there, and his nostrils flare with a breath so controlled it borders on meditative.
"Your vine." The words come out low. Gravel wrapped in velvet. "Reached across the fence. Into my yard. And attached itself to my Japanese maple."
"Oh! The moonvine is friendly. She just likes to explore."
"She tore a branch off my maple."
"That's... her way of saying hello?"
Those dark eyes narrow. The shears catch the afternoon light.
"Flynn Danger." He says his own name like he's reading a warrant. "I live next door. We need to discuss several things."
He extends the laminated sheet.
I take it. The paper is warm from his grip and thick, the kind of heavy-duty lamination you'd use for something meant to survive a nuclear winter. The headerreads: CEDARBROOK LANE NEIGHBORHOOD LAWN AND GARDEN ORDINANCES. Below it, a color-coded legend. Green for mandatory. Yellow for recommended. Red for violations subject to fines.
There are twenty-three items.
Twenty-three.
Color-coded.
"You laminated this."
