I unplugged the cable and carried its end to Celia's porch. She opened the door before I knocked, already dressed for work. Her first words were that Vivian had never minded. I asked whether Vivian had given permission for nightly charging. Celia said they had an understanding about occasional emergencies. She spoke quickly, turning years of neighborliness into a contract only one living person could describe.

I showed her three bills. The increase was not ruinous, but the secrecy mattered more than the dollars. Celia offered forty dollars and said we could call it settled. When I asked how long she had used the outlet, she looked toward Marcus's bedroom window. Her home charger had failed in May. Repair required replacing an electrical panel, and she had postponed it after Marcus came to live with her.

I understood delayed repairs and still said no. We agreed she would remove the cord immediately and arrange another charging plan. I installed a locking outlet cover that evening. At midnight, my porch lamp held steady. The silence should have felt like victory. Instead, I lay awake replaying Vivian's note, wondering whether boundaries erased the kind of neighbor I hoped to become.

Two nights later, someone tried the locked cover. The metal snapped against the siding and woke me. Through the peephole, I saw Marcus crouched beside the outlet with the cable. He ran when I opened the door, leaving one sneaker in the flower bed. The next morning, Celia returned it without him. She said he had an apprenticeship interview across town and panicked when he saw the car's remaining range. Then she asked whether I was happy with the lesson I had taught. I said the lesson was simple: nobody could use my house without asking, no matter how urgent the reason seemed.