It was a Tuesday morning, the kind of Georgia morning that still carried the cool breath of dawn through the pines before the sun burned the softness away. My coffee was hot in my hand. The path down from the cabin was the same one I had walked a thousand times before, a narrow red-clay slope worn smooth by the boots of three generations of Callaways. Pine needles cushioned my steps. The smell of damp earth, cedar, and lake water rose around me in a way that felt older than memory.
I came through the last line of trees expecting to see the lake exactly as I had always seen it—calm, silver-blue, shallow light along the eastern edge, my grandfather’s dock creaking gently at its moorings.
Instead, I stopped so suddenly coffee sloshed over my knuckles.
A fresh slab of concrete spread across my lake bed.
It was immense—nearly the size of a basketball court—flat, pale gray, and still steaming faintly in the cool morning air. The wet edges gleamed under the rising sun. Steel posts had already been bolted into the far side. A laminated sign, glossy and new, was mounted proudly to one of them.
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