One tried the front door.
It did not open.
He rang the bell.
I did not answer.
He rang again, longer.
Then he stepped back, pulled out his phone, and made a call.
Twenty seconds later, Keaton called me.
I sent it to voicemail.
The two men returned to the SUV, drove to the bottom of my driveway, and parked sideways across it.
Blocking the entrance.
That was enough.
I called the county sheriff’s non-emergency line and explained that unknown men were parked at the end of my private driveway, blocking access, after being invited by a family member who had no authority to invite anyone.
The dispatcher asked if I felt unsafe.
I looked at the two men through the camera feed on my laptop.
“I feel prepared,” I said. “But yes, I want a deputy here.”
At 11:58, my parents’ beige Cadillac pulled up behind the SUV.
My father got out first, red-faced and already waving his arms. My mother climbed out holding a purse, a tote bag, and a rolling suitcase that kept tipping sideways on the gravel.
