Brenda glanced up and saw the phone. "You always have to make a scene," she called.
"I'm standing on my porch," I replied.
"You think recording us makes you important?"
"I think it tells us what work is being done."
Dennis came closer to the boundary after a few minutes. He was broad through the shoulders, with hands marked by decades of physical work and a permanently reddened neck. He looked more irritated than threatened and spoke in the voice of a contractor who had learned that confidence often settles a homeowner faster than an explanation.
"We have the job under control, Mr. Callaway. The HOA hired us to improve drainage. That's all you need to know."
"Then please preserve your work order, the design documents, and any authorizations you relied on. There's an ongoing review."
He glanced again at Brenda. "You planning to sue everybody who touches a shovel?"
"No. I'm planning to prevent more water from entering houses. I need to know whether this changes where the runoff goes."
For a second he looked genuinely tired. Then Brenda called him away, and he returned to directing the operator. I wondered whether Dennis believed the work was routine, whether he thought the county would accept it afterward, or whether he knew precisely why the connection was controversial. I had no way of knowing, and I refused to pretend I did.
The crew worked for several hours. They excavated more of the visible trench, placed the corrugated pipe within a gravel bed, and covered much of it with filter fabric and earth. An observer who had not seen the earlier condition might have mistaken it for an ordinary improvement project. But the lower outlet still pointed toward the same side of the development, and the change appeared to concentrate water rather than guide it to the recorded overflow route.
At one point, a crew member paused when he noticed my camera and asked Dennis whether they should keep working. Dennis told him the contract was authorized and to carry on. Later that employee's account would matter, though I did not know it at the time. For now, all I had was the video of the discussion, the work order visible on a clipboard only from a distance, and the company truck with its name in clear view.
Tom drove over just after eleven. He parked in front of my house and stood beside me for several minutes, watching gravel pour into the trench. Then he took out his phone and photographed the equipment from the same public vantage point.
"They know about Monday, don't they?" he asked.
"I don't think so. The site visit was arranged before the weekend. I haven't told Brenda the exact time, and I have no reason to assume the county did."
He rubbed his jaw. "Looks like they're trying to make something wrong look finished before anybody sees it."
"Maybe. But don't say that as fact. We can show what they're installing. The county can decide whether it's allowed."
Tom studied me with the expression of a man who would have preferred a stronger answer. "Sometimes I forget you're an engineer."