Our water bill kept going up, but the town hall insisted there was no leak. Then one afternoon, I saw our neighbor crouching by our outdoor tap, with a hose sticking through the fence. I was already heading towards his gate when my husband texted me: “Don’t let him know you saw him.”

Our water bill used to be around $58 a month.

But it started to rise.

$91.

$137.

$168.

Last month it reached $214.

We have two children.

In this house we tell everything.

I know which supermarket sells milk 11 cents cheaper and which gas station raises prices on Thursday mornings.

When it reached $214, we were already paying $156 more than we used to pay.

And $156 is no small amount.

They were Danny’s football boots.

They were the purchase.

It was money we didn’t have to waste.

I called the town hall twice.

The second time, they sent someone.

He checked the meter, inspected the pipes, went into our basement, and in the end, he just shrugged.

“There is no leak.”

“So, where does the water go?”

“They are consuming more.”

“In March there were four of us too.”

He wrote something down in his notepad.

“The counter works.”

Apparently, that’s where the investigation ended.

So Ben and I started taking precautions and keeping an eye on each other.

We shortened the showers.

I stopped using the dishwasher unless it was full.

Ben started checking the toilets every night for leaks.

In June, we had a fight in the kitchen.

“You shower for 20 minutes.”

“It’s not 20 minutes.”

“You spend an eternity in there.”

“Yesterday you only did laundry for three t-shirts.”

“They were Danny’s uniform shirts.”

“Three T-shirts, Lisa.”

We went to bed angry.

The next morning, I apologized.

Ben too.

Neither of us knew that we were apologizing for water that someone else had used.

Last Tuesday I arrived home shortly after seven.

The children were at my mother’s house.

Ben was still at work.

I didn’t turn on the kitchen light.

I went to the sink, filled a glass, and looked out the window above the plates.

There was a man crouching next to my house.

For a moment, I thought someone was trying to force their way in.

Then he stood up.

Ray.

Our next-door neighbor.

Ray had been living next door to our house for 11 years.

He was 52 years old, had retired early from something he had never explained well, and had the only green lawn on our street during the driest summer we had had in years.

Everyone else’s lawn looked like toast.

Ray’s looked like a golf course.

I had told Marjorie, the one across the hall, that it was a “special mix of seeds.”

I had told Ben that the secret was knowing when to water.

I even heard him once say to another neighbor, “You guys give up on your lawns too quickly.”

Apparently, Ray’s real secret was that someone else would pay for the water.

Ray had one hand on the outside tap of our house.

From there came a green hose that passed through a gap under our fence.

I couldn’t breathe.

Then I looked at the ground.

Beneath the hose, a very pronounced groove was visible.

It wasn’t recent.

It was not by chance.

The floor had been polished by the friction of something that had been dragged across it over and over again.

I took out my phone.

Four photos.

Then, a video.

Then I sent Ben a message.

“Is that Ray?”

“That’s Ray. That’s OUR tap. Ben, that’s where the $214 went.”

“I’m going there.”

“I want you to tell me how long.”

I already had the shoes in my hand when Ben answered.

“No. Don’t do it.”

I stared at the message.

“That?”.

“If you go there tonight, he’ll apologize, say it was a misunderstanding, and do it again in two weeks.”

Another message appeared.

“She’ll tell Marla we’re crazy people yelling over a garden hose.”

Then: “Don’t let him know you saw him.”

I looked out the window.

Ray was now in his garden, casting long, bright arcs across the lawn that, it seemed, we were paying to keep alive.

“Do the photos have the date and time stamp?”

“Yeah”.

“Okay. Leave everything exactly where it is. Don’t touch the hose. I’ll be there in 30 minutes.”

So I stayed in my dark kitchen watching my neighbor rob us for another six minutes.

When he finished, Ray turned off our tap.

Then he did something that made my stomach turn.

He disconnected the hose, fed it through the fence, and carefully covered the hole with a loose board.

An access point had been created.

It wasn’t for comfort.

It was all a plan.

Ben’s van arrived at 7:52 pm

He didn’t go inside the house.

I heard the door close and then footsteps along the side of the house.

I approached him.

He crouched down next to the tap.

“Look”.

The metal surrounding the joint was polished from friction.

Then Ben moved the board aside.

Behind it was a very well-made rectangular opening at the bottom of the fence, wide enough to fit Ray’s hose.

Ben peeked out from there.

“I can’t believe it.”

“What do we do?”

He got up.

“Nothing”.

“Nothing?”.

“Tonight”.

He took pictures of the tap, the opening in the fence, the dirt road, and the meter.

Then he said, “Tomorrow we’ll find out how often.”

The following night, we were ready.

At 7:11 pm, Ray’s hose appeared from under the fence.

At 7:13 pm, he connected it.

Ben recorded it from our bedroom window while I photographed the meter.

Ray watered until 7:36 pm

On Thursday, he did it again.

The same routine.

The same hose.

And the same thorough cleaning afterwards.

Ben compared the readings from our meters.

“This is not a one-off incident.”

“I know”.

“No. Look.”

He showed me his notes.

Ray was using hundreds of liters.

I felt something unpleasant rising up my throat.

I thought about our argument in June.

“You shower for 20 minutes.”

“You wash three t-shirts.”

Ben looked at me.

“That?”.

“We blame each other.”

His expression changed.

We had been turning off the taps while brushing our teeth for months.

Our children were taking shorter showers.

I had stayed in the supermarket putting things back because the utility bill was too high.

Meanwhile, Ray stood to the side, admiring his green lawn.

On Friday afternoon, Ben arrived home with a small metal box.

“What’s that?”.

“A shut-off for the tap.”

I smiled for the first time all week.

He installed it on the tap outside.

Then we wait.

At 7:08 pm, the board moved.

The green hose appeared.

Ray crouched down next to our house.

He reached for the tap.

It stopped.

He pulled the latch.

He looked around.

He shot again.

And then he disappeared.

Three minutes later, our doorbell rang.

Ben looked at me.

“Don’t smile.”

“I’m not doing it.”

“Of course”.

He opened the door.

Ray was there.

“Hi, Ben.”

“Ray”.

Ray shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

“Have you put any kind of shut-off valve on the outside tap?”

Ben nodded.

“Yeah”.

Ray waited.

Ben didn’t help him.

Finally, Ray asked, “Why?”

Ben leaned against the door frame.

“The water bill.”

Ray’s face changed.

Just one second.

But I saw it.

“Ah.”

“Anything else?”.

“No. I just realized.”

“From your garden?”

Ray looked towards the fence.

“Yes. I saw it by chance.”

Ben nodded slowly.

“Interesting. It’s on the other side of the fence.”

Ray pursed his lips.

“Good night, Ben.”

He left.

I thought that had been the confrontation.

But it wasn’t like that.

On Saturday morning, Ray knocked on the door again.

This time, Marla was behind him.

And Ray looked angry.

Ben opened the door.

I stayed by his side.

Ray didn’t mince words.

“I think we need to clarify something.”

“Okay”.

He pointed toward the side yard.

“I’ve used that tap a few times.”

Marla looked at him.

“That?”.

Ray ignored him.

“If I was working near the fence or needed to rinse something, I used it. I didn’t think you’d mind.”

Ben stared at him.

“A few times?”

“From time to time”.

I picked up the folder we had left on the small table in the entrance hall.

Ray saw her.

His expression changed.

I sent the first photo to Ben.

Tuesday.

Ray crouched down next to our tap.

Then, on Wednesday.

Then, on Thursday.

Meter readings.

Dates and times.

Our invoices.

Ben looked at him.

“And have you had to rinse anything three nights in a row this week?”

Ray opened his mouth.

“It’s not what it seems.”

I finally spoke.

“What impression are we giving?”

Ray looked at me.

“Lisa, come on. It’s water.”

That was the last straw.

It wasn’t because of the robbery.

Not even lying.

“Is it water?”

“You know what I mean.”

“No. Explain it to me.”

He glanced at Marla.

I showed him the bill.

“$214”.

Ray said nothing.

“It used to be $58.”

“That doesn’t mean it was all my fault.”

“No. That’s why we measure it.”

Ben showed him the meter readings.

Ray blushed.

I could feel my voice trembling.

“We’ve shortened our children’s showers.”

“Lisa”.

“I’ve stopped buying things at the supermarket.”

“I didn’t know”.

“Ben and I had a fight because I thought he showered for too long and he thought I was wasting water washing clothes.”

Ray looked away.

“You were 3 meters away watering the lawn while we blamed each other for the money you were making us spend.”

Marla was staring at him now.

Then he said something that neither of us expected.

“What grass?”

Ray froze.

Marla’s voice became higher.

“Ray”.

He sighed.

“Don’t do it.”

“I told you to stop watering in May.”

Nobody said anything.

Marla looked at us.

“I already told him in May that we weren’t going to waste money keeping the grass green in the middle of a drought.”

Then he looked at the green grass next to him.

“Oh my God.”

I had told him to stop wasting money on the lawn. Apparently, he didn’t mind using ours.

Ray rubbed his forehead.

“I was taking care of him.”

“With your water?”

“It wasn’t that much.”

“So why didn’t you use yours?”

Ray did not respond.

Ben burst out laughing.

Ray turned towards him.

“Do you find that funny?”

“No. What I find funny is the ‘special seed mix’ thing.”

Marla turned her head suddenly.

“That?”.

Unfortunately for Ray, Marjorie was outside, across the street.

He had spent half the summer asking her how he got the grass so green, and Ray had happily given him a lecture about seeds, soil, and the right time.

I had heard voices.

He approached the sidewalk.

“Is everything all right?”.

Ray replied immediately: “Yes, everything’s fine.”

Then Ben approached the fence.

He bent down, moved the loose board aside, and put his hand in there.

A moment later, he pulled the end of Ray’s green hose into our garden.

Marla stared at her.

“Ray”.

“It’s a hose.”

“Did you make a hole in their fence?”

“I didn’t do it.”

Ben pointed.

The wood around the hole was freshly cut.

Ray lowered his shoulders.

Marjorie had arrived at our driveway.

His eyes shifted from the hose to Ray’s lawn.

Then, understanding spread across her face.

“Is that the special seed mix?”

I bit the inside of my cheek.

Ray looked furious.

“This is nobody else’s business.”

“You’re right,” Ben said. “It’s our business.”

He picked up the folder.

“And we take care of it.”

Ray crossed his arms.

“What do you want?”.

“Give us back our money.”

He burst out laughing.

“I’m not going to pay your water bill.”

“We’re not asking you to.”

Ben handed him a sheet of paper.

“We compared our usual consumption with the months in which the bills went up and then we compared it with what you have consumed this week.”

Ray barely glanced at him.

“You can’t prove that every liter was mine.”

“Maybe not.”

Ben nodded towards my phone.

“But we can prove that you connected your hose to our water network several times and used it without permission.”

Ray’s smile vanished.

“We have everything documented. If we have to claim a refund through official channels, we will.”

Marla snatched the sheet from Ray.

“How much?”.

“$286”.

Marla stared at him.

“Is that what you think he’s spent?”

“It’s our most conservative estimate, based on meter readings this week and the months when our bills were highest.”

Ray turned around.

“Marla”.

She ignored him.

“$286?”

“That’s the amount we’re asking for.”

Ray scoffed.

“Are you really going to make me pay for all that?”

I looked at him.

“We’re not even asking you to pay for everything.”

Marla closed her eyes.

Then he left without saying another word.

Ray followed her.

For about 30 seconds, nobody moved.

Marjorie finally broke her silence.

“So there’s no special seed?”

Ben couldn’t hold back.

She laughed so hard she had to look away.

I burst out laughing too.

Not because the money thing amused me.

Otherwise, if I didn’t laugh, I was going to start screaming.

Marjorie looked at Ray’s garden.

“I already knew that.”

An hour later, Marla returned alone.

He handed me a check.

$286.

“I’m sorry”.

“You don’t have to apologize.”

“Apparently, someone does have to do it.”

I took a look towards his house.

“Did you know I was doing it?”

“No”.

I believed him.

She seemed embarrassed.

“He kept telling me that the grass stayed green because he had treated the soil in the spring.”

Of course.

“Is Ray coming?”

“No”.

It was probably for the best.

Before leaving, Marla looked at the hole in the fence.

“I’ll pay for that repair too.”

Ben shook his head.

“I can change the table.”

“No”.

He looked towards his house.

“He can.”

On Monday morning, Ray changed it.

Ben was watching him from our entrance.

I saw it from the kitchen window.

Ray didn’t look up even once.

The tap was shut off, but that’s where it ended.

And our cameras too.

Then something happened that I didn’t expect.

Ray’s lawn began to change.

At first, little by little.

A pale area near the mailbox.

Then, a yellowish tint along the driveway.

By the end of the second week, the bright green had faded.

By the fourth one, Ray’s garden looked exactly the same as everyone else’s.

One afternoon, Marjorie caught me collecting the mail.

He nodded in that direction.

“I guess that special seed eventually stopped working.”

I smiled.

“It must be because of the weather.”

Ray barely spoke to us after that.

Perfect for me.

But what I couldn’t get out of my head wasn’t the hose.

It was that fight with Ben.

One night, when the children had already gone to bed, I caught him putting the dishes in the dishwasher.

“Do you remember June?”

He looked up.

“You’re going to have to be more specific.”

“The fight with water.”

“Ah.”

“You said I only did the washing machine for three t-shirts.”

“Yes, you did.”

“They needed a wash.”

“There were three shirts.”

I threw a kitchen towel at him.

He stopped it.

Then I said to him, “I really thought it was just between us.”

Her smile faded.

“Me too”.

“We were trying to find the problem within our own house.”

Ben closed the dishwasher.

“Because ordinary people don’t assume their neighbor is stealing hundreds of liters of water.”

“Especially a neighbor we’ve known for 11 years.”

He nodded.

That bothered me more than I wanted to admit.

Ray had waved to our children.

I had borrowed Ben’s ladder.

I had brought our trash cans inside when we were outside.

Then he had made a hole under our fence and passed the hose through it without anyone noticing.

I had seen our lawn turn brown while theirs stayed green.

He had probably seen me unloading the purchase and had no idea that I had been returning things to the store because of the invoice that he himself had helped to generate.

Or perhaps he knew.

I don’t know which possibility bothered me more.

The next water bill arrived on a Thursday.

I hardly ever open it.

For months, that envelope had given me goosebumps.

I opened it in one swift motion next to the mailbox.

$63.

Almost exactly the same as we paid before Ray’s lawn turned green.

I checked it twice.

Then I took it inside and stuck it on the fridge.

When Ben got home, he realized it right away.

“63 dollars?”

“63 dollars”.

He kissed me.

Danny went through the kitchen.

“Why do they get so excited about a bill?”

“Adult stuff.”

“How odd”.

“Absolutely.”

He grabbed an apple and left.

Ben looked towards Ray’s house through the window.

Ray’s lawn had finally turned the same dull brown as everyone else’s.

Ours too.

I didn’t care.

We had spent months saving water that we weren’t wasting, arguing about money that we weren’t carelessly losing, and wondering what we were doing wrong.

The answer had been seeping under our fence several nights a week.

In the end, Ray stopped avoiding us.

He never apologized.

But he never touched our tap again either.

And every time I saw him standing in his dry garden, I remembered all those conversations about his special seed mix.

It turns out Ray had told the truth about one thing .

His lawn was truly unlike everyone else’s.

But we had been paying for it.