Deputy Marla Pinkerton lowered the rental agreement like it weighed more than her badge. Her shades hid her eyes, but her jaw did that little sideways shift that meant her patience had officially clocked out.

“This changes everything,” she said. “Regardless of how… homemade it is, it’s a rental agreement, not a guest book.”

Spine blinked.

Inside the trailer, Lula made a noise like a teakettle having opinions.

Pinkerton tapped the paper again, firmer this time.

“See, a guest book is where folks sign their name and brag about the potato salad.

A rental agreement means you live here.

And if you live here, Lula can’t just scribble ‘She’s got to go!’ on a scrap of paper and call it due process.”

Lula hollered from the kitchen,

“It was stationery!”

Pinkerton didn’t even turn her head.

“Ma’am, it had barbecue sauce on it.”

Spine choked on her chai.

Pinkerton folded the rental agreement with the precision of someone who alphabetizes her trauma.

“So here’s the situation: this document—however sticky, however confusing—is still a lease. And that means you’re not going anywhere unless the county says so.”

She tucked the paper under her arm, badge #24 catching the light like it was rolling its eyes.

Spine just smiled into her cup.