His expression was almost impossible to describe.

He was standing in our yard, tinted green, unable to leave through the gate, trying to decide whether he should be angry or embarrassed.

“Charlotte,” he said. “What is going on?”

I brought the laptop outside.

“I was about to ask you the same question.”

I turned the screen toward him.

First, I showed them footage from that evening.

Then footage from the previous weekend.

There they were.

Walking through our gate.

Opening our hot tub.

Bringing drinks.

Playing music.

Making themselves comfortable.

Jim stopped talking.