“Takes all kinds of folks to make a world,” he said calmly.

I had only spoken directly to Chad one single time before that formal violation letter arrived.

It happened back in early June while I was helping Dad harvest the first sweet strawberries of the season.

Chad had walked out onto his upper deck and stood there silently watching us work below.

He appeared to be around forty five years old, tall, and extremely fit in the manner of someone who spends hours at a gym following a trainer’s strict orders.

He had a sharp haircut and wore an expensive gold watch that glinted in the bright sunlight.