My Father Brought a Locksmith to Sell the Ranch I Bought
By noon, the cedar post at the main gate was frozen solid. I held the cordless drill in my gloved hand, the battery light flashing orange as the sub-zero air drained its power.
The small plastic security camera was light, its lens reflecting the gray mountain sky. I lined up the bracket against the rough bark.
The wood split slightly under the pressure of the screw, a tiny smell of fresh sap rising in the cold. I tightened the mounting screw until the plastic housing clicked into place. The camera lens pointed down toward the gravel road, aimed directly at the heavy chain I had looped through the gate.
A yellow sticker on the side of the camera housing said it was connected to the local network. I pulled my phone from my pocket to check the feed, my fingers stiffening as soon as I took off my glove.
The screen showed a high-angle view of my own boots in the snow. The county road was empty, stretching back toward the main highway like a gray thread.
