Mrs. Dalton ran across the street in her slippers, holding a printed photograph in each hand. I had taped a dozen of them along her porch railing and front door, each one a still from my doorbell camera. They showed her marching across my lawn that morning, ripping down the ghosts and stamping on the lanterns. Beneath them hung a neat note: “Destroying property is a crime. The footage is saved. The decorations cost seventy-five dollars to replace.”

“You had no right to put those up!” she screamed. “You tore ours down first,” I said evenly, “and my sons made every one.” Behind me, doors were opening along the street. Neighbors stepped out with phones in their hands, and my older son, Eli, whispered, “Mom, look.” A police cruiser had turned slowly onto our road, and it stopped at the curb between our two houses.