The rough, heavy fabric of my camo felt like a second skin, a necessary shroud against the prying eyes of the cul-de-sac. I pressed my back against the damp earth, my pulse thrumming in my ears as I huddled beside the towering blue hydrangeas. Just beyond the hedge, the neighbor's voice drifted over, sharp with judgment regarding my new perennials. I held my breath, my knuckles white as I squeezed my hands together. In this moment of tactical stillness, I was no longer a man tending garden; I was a shadow waiting for the truth to surface.