By the end of the first week, dust began to settle on everything, the porch railing, the koi pond, even the coffee cup he left outside each morning. The air smelled like diesel and wet cement. One afternoon, a cement mixer pulled too far forward on the narrow road, grinding over the corner of his lawn.
Walter walked out and waved the driver down. “Hey! You’re on private property,” he shouted over the engine. The man gave a lazy salute and reversed just enough to leave a deep rut in the grass. “Road’s tight,” he yelled back with a smirk. “Don’t take it personally.” Walter stood there until the truck disappeared, staring at the crushed patch of lawn.