Martha opened the door two inches, chain still on, and stared at him. "What do you want?"
Larry held up the clipboard. "Just trying to help. Midland's putting together a list for temporary relocation. If you sign, they'll get you a room tonight, no charge."
Martha's voice turned razor flat. "You're working for them."
Larry's smile twitched. "It's a community partnership. Don't make it ugly, Martha."
Martha felt something in her chest snap into place. "Get off my property."
Larry's eyes narrowed. "You don't want to fight this. You can't."
Martha leaned closer to the crack in the door. "Watch me."
Larry's smile fell away. For a second, his face showed something meaner underneath. "Sheriff's not going to let you turn this into a circus."
Martha's phone buzzed, one bar of signal, barely alive. She didn't take her eyes off Larry as she answered.
Dean's voice came through, rough with distance. "Martha, you called?"
Martha stared at Larry through the door crack and said into the phone, "They tagged my house. They're saying my insurance lapsed. There's a buyout sheet with a developer's logo on it, and the sheriff's deputy recorded me in the county building."
There was a pause on the line, the kind where you could hear someone's jaw tighten even through a weak signal.
"Where are you right now?" Dean asked.
"At my house," Martha said, "with Larry Fitch on my porch acting like he's the government."
Larry's head tilted slightly as he realized she was calling someone he didn't want involved. "Who's that?" he demanded.
Martha didn't answer him. She kept her voice steady into the phone. "Dean, they're moving fast."
Dean's reply was immediate. "Don't sign anything. Don't hand anyone originals. If someone tries to enter your house, you call me before you call them."
Martha swallowed. "Where are you?"
"Outside town," Dean said. "We pulled off because of curfew. We've got people camped where we're allowed. I'm coming to you."
Larry knocked once, hard. "Martha, don't be stupid."
Martha's eyes stayed locked on him. "Get off my porch," she said, and her voice carried enough steel that even Larry hesitated.
Dean's voice tightened. "Martha, listen to me. Do not open that door wider. If he won't leave, you go out the back. Get in your car. Drive to..."
A sharp crack interrupted him, not thunder, not wood settling, but a gunshot-sounding pop from the direction of her driveway.
Martha flinched, heart jumping into her throat. Larry froze, eyes snapping toward the road.
In the second it took Martha to breathe, her front yard filled with headlights as a county vehicle turned onto her lane.
Headlights swept across Martha's torn yard, bright and clinical, turning every splinter and wet patch of grass into something that looked staged under a spotlight.
The county vehicle rolled slowly, tires crunching gravel, then stopped just short of her mailbox as if it was respecting a line. It wasn't.