sound.
The lake fought harder than I expected. Water always looks calm until you ask it to leave. Mud slumped. Clay collapsed. The basin released itself in surges, not gracefully but angrily, rushing into the channels Curtis had cut to control the flow and return water toward the spring’s natural course. The dock tilted within the first hour, one side dropping as the supporting bank gave way. Men moved with chainsaws and straps, dismantling it section by section. Fountain pipes came out. Electrical lines were capped and removed. Ornamental grasses were pulled. Straw matting rolled back in filthy sheets.
By midmorning, Brent arrived in a cloud of gravel dust.
He jumped out before his truck stopped fully. “You can’t just do this!”
Harold held up the order.
“We gave you twenty-one days,” I said.
Laurel arrived minutes later, pale and furious, one hand pressed to her mouth as if she had discovered vandalism instead of enforcement. She stared at the dock sections stacked on a trailer.
