"Ray," I said, "do you know who's putting these up?"
"People are upset," he replied. "You ought to talk to Amber and settle this."
"I tried. I asked her for a document."
He shook his head as though the distinction exhausted him. "I've known the Wards for years. Folks around here take care of each other."
"I'd like to believe that," I said. "But somebody is putting my address on a flyer that calls me a threat. That doesn't feel much like care."
He looked at the flyer in my hand, and for a moment I thought he might say something useful. Instead he asked me not to bring the dispute into his store. Two days later, when I came back for deck screws, he told me he would prefer I shop elsewhere until things calmed down.
The refusal surprised me more than Amber's letters had. An attorney's warning belongs to a dispute, but a shopkeeper's closed door changes the shape of ordinary life. I drove twenty miles to buy the same screws from a chain store, and the extra distance gave me time to understand why social pressure works. It wears you down by making every small task carry the possibility of another humiliation.
On Thursday I found a black garbage bag torn open at the entrance to my drive. Food scraps, broken packaging, and empty bottles littered the gravel. The mess had been placed where I would have to step over it to reach my mailbox. I photographed the scene, put on gloves, cleaned it up, and took the bag to the transfer station.
On Friday someone sprayed the word LEAVE across a young maple near my boundary. The paint was bright enough to see from the road. I called the county's nonemergency line, and a deputy named Nina Bell came out to take a report. She looked at the markings and asked if I had been involved in any recent disputes.
"One," I said, and gave her a short account without speculating about the person responsible.
She made notes and looked toward the junction. "We can document the damage. If you have footage identifying whoever did it, preserve the original file. Don't confront anybody you see near the road."
"The camera doesn't cover this tree," I admitted.
"Then we won't pretend it does," she said. "A report is still worth making."
Saturday morning was worse. Three cars had been parked across the entrance to my private drive in a way that prevented me from reaching the highway. None had a driver inside, and none displayed anything explaining an emergency. I took photographs and called Deputy Bell, who contacted the county's authorized towing service after confirming the vehicles' position and checking the applicable rules.
The tow operator was a big man named Roy Madison, and he arrived looking as though he wanted to be anywhere else. "I'm not getting into a neighborhood war," he said as he stepped down from the cab.
"Neither am I," I replied. "I just need to leave my house."