No unusual vegetation.
No pressure loss inside the house.
Then I reached the rear.
The valve was open.
Attached to it was a green contractor-grade garden hose I had never bought.
I stared at it.
Then I followed it.
It ran along the foundation.
Across grass.
Under the bottom edge of my fence where an old rail had deteriorated.
Then into Denise Caldwell’s yard.
I stepped closer to the fence.
The hose continued toward her pool equipment.
It disappeared into the fill connection.
For nearly a minute, I did nothing.
Not because I could not understand what I was seeing.
Because I understood perfectly.
Somebody had connected my well to Denise’s pool.
The grass had begun growing around the hose.
It had been there a while.
I disconnected it.
Coiled it neatly.
Set it beside my workshop.
Closed the valve.
Then I went inside.
I made coffee even though it was three in the afternoon.
I sat at my grandfather’s table.
And I calculated.
Pools lose water.
Evaporation.
Splash-out.
Backwashing.
Maintenance.
Water features.
Parties.
Her waterfall ran constantly during gatherings.
Whatever exact amount she was using, the explanation for my pump activity was suddenly obvious.
I was paying to operate the equipment that supplied her pool.
Not once.
Not accidentally.
Regularly.
Two days later, the hose was back.
I stood there looking at it with my hands on my hips.
“Interesting,” I said to nobody.
I disconnected it again.
Then I installed a locking fixture.
Four days later, the lock had been broken.
The hose was attached again.
That was when irritation became anger.
I replaced the damaged hardware with something more secure.
It lasted less than a week.
Somebody had cut through that too.
They had crossed my fence, walked onto my land, defeated a device installed specifically to keep them away from my water, and reopened the supply.
That required intent.
There was no misunderstanding anymore.
I drove to Denise’s house.
She answered the door barefoot.
Her hair was damp.
A white cover-up fell loosely over a swimsuit.
She held a glass of wine.
Behind her, the interior of the house looked like a furniture showroom where nobody had ever misplaced a sock.
“Yes?”
“Mrs. Caldwell, somebody has repeatedly connected a hose from my property to your pool.”
She blinked slowly.
“A hose?”
“Green contractor hose. Runs underneath my fence.”
“I’m sure I don’t know anything about that.”
“I’ve removed it twice.”
“That sounds frustrating.”
“I installed locks.”
She waited.
“They were cut off.”
Her expression never changed.