Eli took it all in stride. He wasn’t in it for glory. But he did buy a new sign—professionally made this time—mounted on a steel post at the corner of his property: “PRIVATE FARMLAND—NO PARKING TRESPASSERS WILL BE PLOWED AROUND (AGAIN)”
It had a small image of a tractor beneath the text. Margaret called it “modern art.” The SilverMart eventually responded to the whole fiasco by expanding their lot. Construction crews came in one weekend and cleared the back section of their property to make room for twenty more spaces. That seemed to fix the overflow problem for good.
But even with plenty of parking now, no one dared to test their luck again by crossing Eli’s boundary. The field where the cars had once sat was thriving. Corn stalks rose tall and green, stretching toward the sky like nothing had ever gone wrong.
Between the rows, sprigs of wildflower dotted the borders, planted by Margaret in quiet tribute to the damage that had once been done. One evening, just after sundown, Eli and Margaret sat on their porch watching the wind move through the field like a soft wave. The pink forget-me-nots swayed near the base of the porch steps, freshly watered.