The lake drops two inches overnight and the house complains about it all morning—minute ticks in the mullions, a dry sigh from a joist. I step onto the deck barefoot and the glass railing kisses my calves with cold. Ozone lingers from last night’s heat lightning, a metallic rind on the air. I breathe it in and begin counting.
“One drone eastbound, shoreline height, sixteen meters,” I say into the recorder. “Red beacon steady, no gimbal twitch.” I sketch the path with a mechanical pencil, a clean diagonal toward the dam’s control house.
A second drone ambles in from the marina. “Two, northbound, thirty meters, loiter pattern.” I mark the loop—oval, over the kayak racks, back again—then hold the pencil upright and measure with my thumb like a hobby astronomer. The Glass House pretends transparency is virtue; I treat it like a lab.
From the path below, cedar-scented joggers give way to dog walkers, and then to the man I clocked last week: HOA vest, tablet case, camera phone. He pretends to frame the lake and then leans into the strollers parked outside the coffee kiosk. The click carries up lightly, a mosquito with paperwork.
“Three, hover over public path,” I say. “Altitude uncertain, operator line-of-sight likely from the north lot.” I love the discipline of a list; it keeps my hands from shaking. The lake keeps its new bruise line, darker than yesterday, proof that the dam schedule cares more about sightlines than fish.
The man in the vest pivots. He takes a picture of the laminated sign that reads COMMUNITY FOR EVERYONE with icons for kayaks, yoga mats, leaves—no stroller icon, never a stroller icon. I take his picture, then the sign, then the lineup of strollers as a composite. My camera clicks soft against my cheekbone; the metal is cool, and the strap tastes like old pennies.
My phone vibrates on the railing, a burr under a napkin. I unwrap it, check the VPN, and refresh the HOA listserv digest. The subject line is cheerful like a weather app: Weekly Amenities Reminder.
I read aloud to the recorder for the transcript: “We’re proud of our child-neutral amenities and ask residents to keep walkways clear of strollers for safety and inclusivity. Please park devices in designated alcoves.” I pause on devices. “Headers captured,” I add, and screenshot the metadata like a reflex—sender IP, Mailer version, timestamp. I file it in if_then > HOA and append today’s drone map.
A drone drifts across my line of sight and kisses the morning with a thin whine that scratches the inside of my ears. The smell of cedar coughs from the closets behind me through the slider door—I left it cracked because glass makes me feel like I live in a jar. I nudge the door wider with my foot and go back to work.
I narrate for the rainy day when I might sit in a beige annex and need to sound like a clock. “Nine twenty-eight A.M., HOA-identified agent photographing strollers,” I say. “Plate log to follow.” I track his path to the lot and notch down numbers like a toll taker: three SUVs with foundation parking stickers, one electric sedan with a rook emblem airbrushed onto the wheel cap. The rook is everywhere—the house doorknobs, the cufflinks at dinners, the little brand on paper meant to read quality and not control.
I text Tamsin a thumbnail collage of flight paths and plate numbers, then call before she can type a reply. She picks up on the first half ring.
“Tell me you’re inside,” she says.
“Deck,” I say. “Logging. Drones are bored. HOA is militant about stroller geometry.”
“Read me the top line,” she says. I hear her uncap the pen she loves enough to mention in her will.
“Lake down two inches; house complaining; drones at sixteen and thirty meters; HOA vest photographing strollers and signs; email referencing ‘child-neutral amenities’ archived with headers; plates logged.”
“Nice,” she says. “Do you have any shots where the drone reflects in your glass? Juries love mirrors.”
“Two,” I say. “Plus a shadow crossing the rook handle in the master door. Poetry for exhibits.”
“Label that one Exhibit—poetry and then relabel it Exhibit 2-C so I don’t get fired,” she says. The dry in her voice lets me breathe.
“Copy,” I say. “And I want to seed something.”
“I’m seeding today,” she says. “Notice of anticipated litigation to the trust and to the foundation. It puts them on ice if they’re tempted to play rough.”
“You think they’ll read notice as challenge accepted?” I ask. A gust lifts the lake into riffs and then lets it fall, darker where it wets the exposed rock—like a hand testing a fever.
“I think they already escalated,” she says. “You’re building the why. I file the because.”
“Say the language to me,” I say. “I want it in my mouth.”
She clears her throat, slips into the voice that snaps boardrooms into shape. “We represent Lena Calder. We have reason to anticipate litigation concerning coercive enforcement of trust provisions and retaliatory surveillance affecting medical privacy. Preserve all documents, communications, and device logs, including but not limited to smart-home telemetry and third-party monitoring contracts. Any alteration will be treated as spoliation.”
I whisper it back, hitting the commas with tiny nods. “Preserve all documents,” I repeat, quiet like a prayer that swaps supplication for teeth. “Do you add the seventy-two-hour freeze language?”
“I do,” she says. “I cite the protective template our new friend blessed us with.”
“Blessed with a flowchart,” I say. “I’ll make icons. Maybe a little rook drowning.”
“Save your art for the jury,” she says. “What’s our next movement?”
“I log plates until my handwriting shakes,” I say. “Then I go buy groceries I don’t need so my tail has to choose between produce and policy.”
“Be brave,” she says. I hear typing, the steady percussion of a filing finding its address. “And send me the HOA email raw. Don’t forward; export the .eml.”
“Already sent,” I say. “With a side of drone geometry.”
“Atta girl,” she says, softer now. “Call me if any ‘friendly’ knocks.”
“I’ll say the script,” I say. I hang up and set a timer for fifteen minutes to make my logging look routine if anyone checks for patterns.
The man in the vest returns to the path and pretends to admire the water level, which today shows more bone than flesh. He photographs the high-water mark on a boulder like he intends to sue the glacier. I take his picture again and zoom to catch the rook pin on his tablet sleeve. My thumb shakes; I steady it with my other hand and keep shooting until the tremor burns out.
Inside, the house’s cedar breath is joined by printer toner from the office; the smell says work in a way coffee never did for me. I step in, download the cards, and build a folder: 19_Lake_2inches. Subfolders: Drones, HOA, Plates, Ambient. I feed the HOA email into a parser and export the headers again because redundant is delicious.
A new digest pops up: Programming Update: Salon Series with a subhead I can’t help reading: Legacy Without Heirs—A Conversation. I snort air through my nose so hard it hurts. The body remembers to laugh like it’s allergic.
I forward the digest to if_then > Donor_Salon_Language with a note for future cross: compare timestamps with drone loiter windows. I write myself a question in the margin: Did loiter spikes correlate with events where couples bring ‘devices’ that aren’t strollers?
Timer chirps. Back out to the deck. My bare feet register microgrit—the fine dust that settles when water leaves and wind stays. I lift the camera again, and a dragonfly ticks past like a living rivet.
My phone buzzes with a new subject line from boardadmin@rookfoundation. I don’t open it; I screenshot it unopened, headers visible, and store it like I’d store meat—cold, labeled, dated. My hand hovers over the tap anyway. Curiosity is a muscle and a trap.
I go small to stay large. I write a note to myself: Delay reading, maintain control. I lock the screen and return to my map.
“Ten-oh-two A.M., three-drone overlap,” I say into the recorder. “Noise profile slightly higher; one unit rotates toward house.” The sound thins the hair on my arms. The drone angles just enough to catch the glare off the glass, then corrects. It isn’t illegal to stare; it’s just very efficient.
I shoot a time-lapse of its wander pattern and imagine the legal caption: Surveillance escalates when leverage threatens a trust. I feel the truth of it in the soft sections under my ribs.
A delivery truck pulls up below. The driver hops out, scans, leaves a box for the coffee kiosk. The HOA vest documents the box too, because boxes can be babies if you need them to be. I write box documented and then hate the sentence for existing.
In the office, the rook door handle gleams like a tiny chess promise. I touch it and feel silly, then guilty for feeling silly. I pick up the handset and call Tamsin back.
“I’m filing,” she says before hello. “Do you need to hear the final line?”
“Yes,” I say. “Give me the last paragraph.”
“Finally, any in-person contact with our client or any third party known to be associated with her will be recorded. Attempts to conduct ‘welfare’ checks or ‘wellness’ visits without counsel will be treated as harassment and presented accordingly. Govern yourselves.” She inhales. “I love that last sentence.”
“Govern yourselves,” I repeat, letting the words pass over my tongue like a brandy I don’t drink. “Send me the proof of service when you have it.”
“Will do,” she says. “And Lena—if you have to choose between getting footage and getting inside, you get inside.”
“I get inside,” I say. “Then I upload.”
“Then you upload,” she echoes, and the line goes quiet except for the sound of her pen capping like a satisfied door.
I step back onto the deck. The lake is lower than the developer brochure I keep in a drawer for exhibits that need a Before. Wind lifts my hair off my neck; cedar drafts in again, sweet under the metallic skin of ozone. I tilt my face into the smell and taste the two lives it holds: curated closets and weather warnings.
Down below, the HOA vest waves at a woman who hoists her toddler into a jogger. He points to the NO DEVICES decal on the kiosk wall and nods like a pastor. I lift my camera, but I don’t catch their faces. I keep my lens on the vest, the sign, the stroller wheels touching the chalk line that says ALCOVE in clean block letters. I record the time.
My inbox pings with Tamsin’s subject line: Notice of Anticipated Litigation—Rook Trust & Foundation (Service Confirmed). I open and see the letterhead, clean and sharp. I save a PDF, print a copy, and slide it into a manila sleeve labeled Freeze_Clock_Starts. The printer coughs warm paper and toner stings the air like a warning I can finally hold.
The drone that had been flirting with the lake edge drifts nearer, curious now. Its hum finds a frequency that threads the window seams—like a dental tool, controlled and smug. I lift my hand and wave. It can’t recognize sarcasm, but I still do it.
“This is brave,” I tell the recorder, my voice low. “This is what brave sounds like, not feels like.”
I photograph my deck cam’s feed on my phone, then the house network dash to show the ring of blocked devices like a fence: the bracelet’s MAC still gagged, the smart speaker muzzled. I touch my stomach without meaning to, then flatten my palm on the railing to keep the gesture private.
“Eleven seventeen A.M., notice filed,” I say. “Surveillance activity unchanged; HOA vest active.” I pause the recorder and let silence hold me by the shoulders.
The vest moves toward the lot again. I collect the last plates, zooming for the rook airbrush I recognized earlier. I whisper each letter and number like beadwork until they’re inside the file.
My phone trills soft. A calendar block I made for myself appears: Clinic—Alias Prep, 24 hrs. The words keep me steady; they remind me a body is a person, not a policy.
I gather the notebook, the camera, the printed notice. I seal them in a plastic envelope and slide it into a drawer that reads HOUSEHOLD so that anyone rifling for scandal gets bored first. The rook handle clicks in my palm, patient.
Outside, the drone tips, then drifts toward my windows like a moth to a staged flame. The hum grows a millimeter louder; the house answers with a faint creak, glass talking to air.
I do not back away. I hold the camera at my hip, tilt the lens up, and capture the exact moment the drone’s red eye meets my reflection and—tiny, undeniable—stutters.
I ask the question that will decide tomorrow’s script: Now that we’ve served notice, will their politeness arrive with a clipboard and a smile, or with a drone’s red eye and a knock I can’t record fast enough?