The next morning, the sun wasn’t even fully up — just that thin, sharp line of Florida daylight slicing across the yard. Spine stood on the porch with her chai tea, steam curling around her sunglasses. The crumpled note — *She’s got to go!* — sat on the rail like a threat written by a possum with a grudge.

Then came the sound: tires on gravel, slow and deliberate.

Deputy Marla Pinkerton stepped out of the cruiser like she’d been practicing this moment in the mirror. Uniform crisp. Clipboard tucked under one arm. She didn’t look nervous. She looked… procedural.

Spine didn’t move. She just took a sip of chai and waited.

Pinkerton cleared her throat — not timid, just official.

"Morning, we got another call from Lula. I'm gonna need to see your rental agreement."

Pinkerton held her clipboard like a shield.

“Your rental agreement, ma’am.”

Spine set her chai down next to Lula’s crumpled decree.

“You drove out here at sunrise… for paperwork, that I showed your supervisor yesterday.”

Pinkerton didn’t budge.

“It was requested.”

Spine tilted her head.

“By Lula Mae Bradwell‑Broadwell‑Bardwell‑Breadwell, I’m guessing.”

Pinkerton’s jaw tightened — the look of a woman who knows she’s been sent on a fool’s errand but refuses to be the fool.

Spine stepped down one stair.

“Alright then. You want my rental agreement? I’ll get it. But you better read every line, Pinkerton. Because Lula’s got opinions, but the county’s got laws — and those two don’t always shake hands.”

The cicadas kicked up like they were taking sides.

Pinkerton swallowed, squared her shoulders, and braced herself.

Spine smiled without smiling.