The representative suggested checking appliances.
I scheduled a technician.
He found nothing unusual.
I changed the thermostat.
The next month’s bill was worse.
Two hundred seventy-one dollars.
Now I was angry.
Not dramatically angry.
The dangerous kind.
The quiet kind that makes a retired school secretary find a notebook.
I started writing down meter readings.
Morning.
Evening.
Before bed.
After breakfast.
For five nights, nothing made sense.
Then, on a Tuesday at one twelve in the morning, I woke because my cat knocked a book from the nightstand.
I went to the kitchen for water.
Through the window above the sink, I saw a faint green light near the side of my garage.
At first, I assumed it was one of my outdoor decorations.
Then I remembered I had turned them off.
I went outside in my robe.
A thick charging cable ran from the weatherproof outlet on my garage wall, beneath the hedge, through the gap in our fence, and into Vanessa Cole’s electric SUV.
I stood there for several seconds.
Then I laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because after two months of inspecting appliances, arguing with the utility company, and wondering whether my house had developed some electrical disease, the answer was parked fifteen feet away.
Vanessa was stealing electricity from me.
I did not unplug the cable.
Not yet.
Instead, I took photographs.
Wide view.
Cable.
Outlet.
License plate.
Connection.
Timestamp.
Then I went inside.
The next morning I knocked on Vanessa’s door.
She opened it wearing exercise clothes.
“Eleanor! Everything okay?”
“I need to ask you something.”
“Sure.”
“Have you been charging your car from my house?”
She paused.
That pause told me everything.
Then she smiled.
“Only a few times.”
“A few?”
“My outdoor charger has been acting strange.”
“Why didn’t you ask?”
“I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“You did not think I would mind paying for your car?”
She sighed.
“It’s not that much.”
“My electric bill increased by more than one hundred dollars.”
“That cannot all be me.”
“Some of it is.”
She leaned against the door.
“Eleanor, you barely use any electricity.”
I stared at her.
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“You live alone.”
The sentence came out so casually that I almost missed how insulting it was.
“You’re retired. I’ve got kids. I drive everywhere. I’m just saying your house isn’t exactly consuming huge amounts.”
“So whatever I don’t use belongs to you?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“It is exactly what you said.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Fine. What do you want? Twenty dollars?”
“No.”
“Thirty?”
“I want you to stop plugging your vehicle into my home.”
“I said the charger at my house is broken.”
“Then repair it.”
“That takes time.”
“Then use a public station.”
“Those cost money.”
I almost smiled.
“Yes.”
She realized what she had admitted.
For once, Vanessa had nothing to say.
I continued.
“And I want my fox back.”
She blinked.
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Nothing.”
I smiled.
“I’m simply remembering several unfinished conversations.”
Her face tightened.
“Fine.”
“Also, please stop putting trash into my bin.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes.”
“And tell the children not to ride across my flower beds.”
“They’re kids.”
“They can be kids on your side of the property line.”
Vanessa stared at me.
Then laughed bitterly.
“Wow.”
“What?”
“I didn’t realize you were this petty.”
There it was.
The word people use when somebody they have been taking advantage of finally starts counting.
I nodded.
“Good morning, Vanessa.”
Then I went home.
For four days, nothing happened.
The fox returned.
He appeared beside my mailbox one morning with his scarf still painted white.
