Cindy freezes. Her left eyelid does a drum solo.

CINDY BRUTUS (40s, hair in a frantic bun, wearing a housecoat that has seen things ) moves like a caffeinated cheetah. She does not walk. She deploys .

Internal monologue, MAX SPEED: Smudge. Hostile. Source: canine. Target: glass. Response: IMMEDIATE SANITIZATION. But—no. Strategy. The dog is a weapon. The neighbor, KAREN (50s, wine-mom energy), is the arm. Karen lets Reginald roam because she “likes his free spirit.” Cindy has filed 14 HOA complaints. All ignored.

“Apology accepted. But remember, Reginald…” She folds the curtain into a perfect square. “I know where you sleep.”

Today ends.

A fresh, wet, MUD PIE.

Cindy stands at the property line. She holds a freshly steamed curtain, pristine white. Reginald, on the other side, drops a single, dry leaf at her feet.

She smiles. Not warm. Clinical.