The corner was empty.
A pale square of clean concrete showed where the wheels usually rested, surrounded by a thin outline of dry grass clippings. I stood there for several minutes, my hands resting on my hips, staring at the blank wall.
A sudden chime from the driveway broke the silence of the yard. I stepped out of the garage side door and saw Monica’s white Tesla backing into her narrow gravel drive, its electric motor hum barely audible over the rustle of the trees.
Monica got out of the driver’s seat, her eyes glued to her phone as her thumb flicked rapidly across the screen. She wore a beige trench coat that looked far too expensive for a Tuesday afternoon in Oak Creek.
“Monica,” I called out, raising my voice just enough to carry over the property line.
She did not look up from her screen until she reached her second step, right beside the blue gnome. “Oh, hey, Eleanor. Is everything okay?”
“I was just looking for my lawnmower,” I said, taking two steps toward the low wire fence that separated our driveways. “It seems to have gone missing from my garage.”
