Story code: ST-001063
Part 3: Behind the Screen
Mrs. Gable shifted her weight, holding the yellow gardening trowel like a shield. ‘Dave is only trying to protect his investment, Sarah. You have no right to keep that equipment from him. The community guidelines are very clear about neighborly cooperation.’
Sarah didn’t look at Mrs. Gable. Her gaze remained fixed on the second-story window of the Vance home. I followed her line of sight. Behind the thin mesh screen, the white blinds twitched. A tall, thin silhouette stood motionless in the shadow of the frame. In the figure’s hands, the faint green glow of a tablet screen illuminated a face. It was Dave Vance. He was not looking down at us directly; his head was bent over the screen, his thumbs moving in rapid, rhythmic taps.
Beside me, the drone’s gimbal gave another mechanical click. The lens spun, locking onto Sarah’s face. The small red light on its underbelly continued its steady, slow blink.
‘Leo,’ Sarah said, her voice dropping to a quiet, measured level. ‘Is your dad telling you what to say through that earbud?’
The boy’s mouth opened, but only a dry click came out. He reached up again to tap the white plastic casing in his ear. The blue indicator light flared once, then died. Leo looked up at the second-story window. His shoulders dropped three inches. He looked smaller now, stripped of the legal terminology that had held him upright.
‘He told me to get the card,’ Leo muttered, his voice barely carrying over the breeze. ‘He said not to let you touch the camera.’
‘Why?’ Sarah asked.
Leo didn’t answer. He looked back at his own driveway, then at Mrs. Gable, who was now typing rapidly on her phone.
‘Well, it’s public record now,’ Mrs. Gable said, looking up from her screen with a tight, satisfied smile. ‘I’ve posted the incident to the neighborhood watch board. People are already commenting, Sarah. They agree that withholding personal property is a violation of community trust.’
Sarah took her phone from her pocket. She did not open the community forum. Instead, she pointed the camera down at the broken cedar post where the drone’s rotor had gouged the fresh wood, then took three close-up photos of the drone lying in her flowerbed.
‘I’m logging the damage, Helen,’ Sarah said. ‘And since Dave is using a live stream to monitor my backyard while my kids are out here, I’m uploading these photos directly to the county zoning compliance portal. They handle easement disputes. We’ll let them determine if this constitutes recreational flight or unpermitted surveillance.’
At the window next door, the blinds snapped shut. The silhouette vanished. A moment later, the heavy front door of the Vance house opened. Dave Vance stepped out onto the gravel driveway. He wasn’t wearing his usual remote-pilot headset. He held a phone in one hand and a small plastic case in the other. He walked with fast, jerky strides, his eyes locked onto the black quadcopter lying in the dirt. He didn’t look at Mrs. Gable, and he didn’t look at his son. He kept his eyes on the ground, marching straight toward the open gap in the fence line.