Her accusation followed me through the day. I had not known about the interview, but Celia spoke as if locking my own outlet had stranded Marcus deliberately. At lunch, I priced public chargers and found one beside the library, twelve minutes away. I also checked my doorbell camera. It showed the cable being connected on twenty-three separate nights, including three after our agreement.

I printed the timestamps and walked next door. Marcus answered. He admitted using the outlet after Celia told him to stop. He had been sleeping poorly, working evening shifts, and caring for his younger brother on weekends. None of that turned my electricity into his. I told him so, then offered to drive him to the interview because the bus route required two transfers. He stared at me as if boundaries and help could not occupy the same porch.

Celia returned while we were talking. She refused my offer and said the interview could be rescheduled. Marcus said it could not. Their argument revealed what neither had told me: the car belonged to his late mother, Celia's sister. Selling it would pay for the electrical panel, but Marcus was not ready. Celia had been charging it at night so he could use it without confronting the cost of keeping it.

I did not solve their grief. I drove Marcus to the interview while Celia rode in the back seat, stiff with embarrassment. On the way home, we stopped at the library charger. A handwritten notice said the unit would be removed during parking-lot construction. Celia laughed once, bitterly, and said every practical answer seemed temporary. When we reached Alder Street, a utility truck was parked outside my house and its technician was examining the meter. The meter's sealed cover hung open, and fresh scorch marks darkened one screw.