I stayed silent when my neighbor took things from my property. I even tried to ignore it when she started using my electricity. But the night I finally stopped letting her walk over me, karma struck twice. And the second blow was something she never saw coming.

Most mornings, the hardest decision I made was whether my tomatoes needed watering before breakfast.

At sixty-four, I liked my life that way.

After enough surprises to fill one lifetime, thirty-two years in the same little suburban house had taught me to appreciate ordinary days.

Then one morning, I poured my coffee, opened the electric bill, and discovered ordinary had apparently left without warning.

I stared at the amount.

Then stared again.

“That can’t be right,” I said aloud, though the only one listening was my cat.

The bill was almost twice what I normally paid.

Not ten or twenty dollars more.

Nearly double.

I checked the account number.

Then the meter reading.

Finally, I walked outside to the utility box beside my garage and squinted at the numbers as though they might become embarrassed and correct themselves.