Story code: ST-001063
Part 4: The Boundary Line
Dave Vance stopped at the edge of his gravel driveway, his sneakers resting on the very boundary where the old fence posts had been cleared. He stared at the drone. The lens was still tracking Sarah, but the battery indicator on the side of the chassis was flashing a weak yellow.
‘I’m taking my property back,’ Dave said. His voice lacked the booming authority of the legal scripts he had fed to his son. It was thin and flat.
‘You can have it,’ Sarah said, her voice completely calm. ‘As soon as you sign the property damage assessment.’
She reached over to my work cart and picked up my clipboard. Attached to it was the standard county contractor sheet I used for estimating fence repairs. She pointed to the blank signature line at the bottom, where I had already noted the fifty-dollar cost for replacing the damaged cedar post.
Dave looked at the clipboard, then at the drone. He took a deliberate step forward, his right foot crossing over the string line I had laid out to mark the property boundary. He reached down toward the hydrangeas to grab the drone’s landing gear.
Sarah placed her boot directly over the drone’s plastic frame, not crushing it, but blocking his fingers from reaching the handle. ‘Sign for the post, Dave. And I want the memory card removed before the unit leaves my yard. I am not consenting to the transfer of footage taken inside my property line.’
Dave froze, his hand hovering inches from her boot. He looked up at her, his face tight and pale. Mrs. Gable stood silent now, her trowel lowered to her side. Leo had retreated three steps back into his own yard, his hands tucked deep into his pockets.
‘You can’t force me to hand over the media,’ Dave said, though his voice lacked conviction. ‘That’s federal airspace data.’
‘This is my ground,’ Sarah said, pointing to the dirt. ‘And you’re standing on it without permission to retrieve a device that was recording my children. We can wait for the zoning officer to review the live stream log, or you can eject the card and sign the repair slip now.’
Dave stood in the dirt for five seconds. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small plastic tool, and pressed it into the side of the drone. The tiny black MicroSD card popped out with a soft click. He dropped the card into Sarah’s open palm. Then, taking the pencil from my clipboard, he scribbled his signature on the damage assessment line with a sharp, aggressive stroke.
He snatched the broken quadcopter from the dirt, turned on his heel, and walked back toward his house without looking at his son or Mrs. Gable. Leo followed him in silence, the side gate clicking shut behind them. Mrs. Gable stood for a moment, adjusted her sunglasses, and walked back down the easement path without saying another word.
I took the clipboard back from Sarah. She handed me the small black memory card. ‘Keep this with the invoice,’ she said. ‘Just in case.’
I nodded and slid the card into my tool belt. I lifted the new cedar post, dropped it into the deep post hole, and poured the dry concrete mix around the base. I checked the level one last time, ensuring the bubble was dead center, before screwing the thick wooden slats into place, closing the gap between the two yards for good.