He kept his hand near the kill bar and his eyes on the pole. The pool reached the long seam; the manometer held steady at 0.72; the towel flattened, flickered, flattened.
"Stay with me," he said to air that was already doing its job.
The optimized path took the adaptive breath he'd approved. Heat distributed. The corner that had wanted an excuse didn't get one. The seam walked the last line across metal that had decided to behave.
[Cycle: 98% → 100%.][Program P-001: sheet complete.][Thermal residual: falling.]
He let the emitter lift, killed the heat, and kept the hood at eighty. The tray chimed the last bracket into the bin as if it had meant to be there all morning.
He didn't open the enclosure. Cooling belonged to the hood now. He walked to the door and looked through the window slit at the pole across the road. The little black rectangle stared back with the expressionless attention of cheap lenses.
He took three photos—wide, medium, tight—each with the phone's timestamp and a shot that caught the strap's fresh dust scar on the creosote. He thumbed open the sheriff's non-emergency number from his recent calls.
"Sheriff's Office," a woman said, voice awake but not unkind.
"Hi. Noah Cole, County Road 14, gate near the old hedgerow. I've got an unauthorized camera strapped to the utility pole across from my driveway. Likely related to a trespass situation yesterday. Requesting removal advice or a unit to log it."
"Is it on your property?" she asked.
"Utility pole across the road," he said. "Looks like a consumer trail cam. Not county, not utility."
"Don't take it down yourself," she said, automatic and specific. "That's utility equipment property. I'll log a call to dispatch a deputy when free. I can also give you an incident number and patch you to the power company."
"Incident number is good."
She read a string; he repeated it, wrote it on the clipboard because numbers deserve paper.
"Stay safe," she said. "If anyone returns to the pole, call immediately."
"Copy."
She patched him. Utility answered with a century of grid fatigue in one syllable.
"Unauthorized attachment on your pole at my address," he said. "Sheriff incident number…" He read it. "Small black cam strapped at about three meters."
The utility man grunted an agreement with the universe. "We'll log a removal ticket. Don't climb. Don't cut. If you catch 'em touching it, film everything and call that incident back in."
"I'm good at boring," Noah said.
He ended the call and let his hand leave the phone. The manometer sat at 0.8 now that the seam was memory. The hood kept pulling like a principled thief. Inside the box, cooling air moved over good work.
He grabbed a telescoping painter's pole and snapped on a little hook he'd ground from a scrap—legal or not, he liked having the option to tug a strap without his boots leaving dirt. He stood it near the door. The hand slid to the jamb and curled around it like a brace.
[Note: enclosure closed; vent on; lockout available.]
"Lockout in two minutes," he said. "Let it cool."
Gravel whispered where tires think they're being subtle. A gray sedan nosed to the far side of the road and stopped at an angle that pretended to be casual. The passenger door opened. Skinny got out with a two-step ladder and a grin he wore like a sticker.
Noah pushed the door halfway and stepped into the line of the gate so his body could be both witness and boundary.
Skinny lifted the ladder with one hand and his phone with the other. "Morning, machine guy."
"Morning, tripod," Noah said. He raised his own phone and let the red record dot be a small, honest truth. "You're on camera."
"Me too," Skinny said, and wiggled the phone. "Public right of way."
"Utility pole," Noah said. "Not your right. Sheriff incident logged. Utility ticket in. You walk up that pole, you're writing checks with your face."
Skinny set the ladder down at the base of the pole and put one sneaker on the first rung like he was inventing gravity.
"Step away," Noah said. He kept his tone dull. "I'm not your audience."
A shadow cut the pole—Bix, or the idea of him, stayed in the car. Skinny didn't look back. He liked a stage even if it was a ditch.
[External motion: 1 subject at pole; range 14 m. Vehicle: idling.]
Noah lifted the phone so the frame held Skinny, the ladder, the pole, the strap. He caught the house number in the same frame. He let the audio be what it was.
"You can't stop me," Skinny said, not looking down.
"I can narrate," Noah said. "And I can ask you to think about county fines."
Skinny grinned at the rung. "They like my money."
Noah almost smiled at the honesty. "Then you'll enjoy this part."
He set the painter's pole beside him—not raised, not threatening, just present. The hand kept its grip on the door, the way machines participate when you ask them to.
Inside the box, the cooling fans hummed a monotone that could pass for indifference. The manometer held. The tray held. The NOTICE: CONDITIONAL OPERATION sticker blinked yellow bureaucratic sunshine.
Skinny lifted his second foot. The ladder wobbled because physics hates amateurs. He put a hand on the pole and found creosote the way people find bad news: uninvited, sticky.
"Careful," Noah said. "That's not your tree."
"Not your pole," Skinny said.
"Not your camera," Noah said.
Skinny laughed and looked over his shoulder at the sedan. The driver's window stayed up. Bix was a silhouette behind glass—eyes, a line of a mouth, a patience that had picked up a new hobby.
Noah took a long breath he shared with no one. He could stay behind the gate and film. He could step into the lane and put a person-shaped obstacle where a ladder wanted to be. He could flip the lockout tag, close the door, and let officials do the work he'd started with numbers.
The phone in his hand felt like a weapon built for mornings. The painter's pole felt like a lever he had not yet earned the right to use.
He glanced at the enclosure. The cooling indicator tacked to safe.
[Thermal residual: safe. Lockout permissible.]
He snapped the tiny brass lock through the breaker tag, pocketed the key, and said it out loud because saying it made it true. "Locked out."
Skinny pretended not to hear. He climbed the second rung and reached out like a raccoon who assumes the world is a pantry.
"Don't," Noah said, steady. "Utility and sheriff have incident numbers. They'll enjoy making this a form."
Skinny's grin slid sideways. "You really like papers."
"I like boring," Noah said. "Paper is the price."
A breeze moved the hedge and gave the camera a small new angle. It looked at the gate and at the man who hadn't decided what kind of neighbor he needed to be.
Skinny's shoe squeaked. The ladder shifted a centimeter in the dust.
Noah put his free hand on the chain at his gate and wrapped his fingers once, twice, until the links made a fist for him.
He could step into the lane and be a wall. He could stay behind the chain and be a witness. He could do the thing that felt good and wrong or the thing that felt boring and right.
The painter's pole leaned against his thigh like a suggestion.
Skinny lifted his hand toward the strap.
Noah tightened his grip on the chain and took a single breath to decide which law he was going to love.