The fire extinguisher erupted before Michael Lawson could even turn around.
A violent white cloud blasted across his backyard barbecue grill, swallowing the sizzling steaks, sausages, and freshly seasoned chicken in seconds. The thick powder spread across the black metal grates, covered the serving table, and drifted toward the terrified neighbors standing nearby.
Someone screamed.
A paper plate fell onto the grass.
And a little girl who had been laughing only moments earlier began crying.
“THIS PARTY IS OVER!”
The woman holding the fire extinguisher shouted over the hissing spray.
“You people are violating HOA fire regulations! I warned you what would happen!”
Michael stood motionless, a pair of barbecue tongs still in his right hand.
He was thirty-six years old, six feet tall, with short brown hair, an athletic build, and the tired but kind expression of a man who spent most of his week working as a residential construction supervisor. He wore a fitted light-blue T-shirt, dark jeans, and brown work shoes.
For the past three hours, he had been preparing what was supposed to be a simple neighborhood cookout.
Now his entire grill was covered in extinguisher powder.
And the woman responsible was standing in the middle of his backyard, wearing a black blouse decorated with enormous bright-pink flowers, beige shorts, expensive white sandals, and a look of absolute triumph.
Evelyn Hartwell.
Fifty-two years old.
President of the Cedar Hollow Estates Homeowners Association.
A woman who treated neighborhood guidelines as though they were federal law and seemed to believe that an elected volunteer position gave her authority over every driveway, backyard, and flower bed within the development.
Michael had been dealing with her for almost two years.
But nothing had prepared him for this.
“EVELYN! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”
He hurried toward the grill, stopping short of the drifting powder.
Evelyn lowered the red extinguisher.
A final cloud hissed from the nozzle.
Then she planted one hand on her hip.
“Enforcing community safety standards, Mr. Lawson.”
Michael stared at her.
“YOU JUST SPRAYED CHEMICAL POWDER ALL OVER OUR FOOD!”
She lifted her chin.
“And I would do it again if necessary.”
Behind Michael, his wife Natalie hurried toward their eight-year-old daughter, Sophie, who was standing near the patio table with tears in her eyes.
Natalie pulled the child away from the powder and toward the house.
Several neighbors stepped backward.
Someone began coughing.
Michael looked toward them.
“Everybody move away from the grill. Please. Give us some room.”
He turned off the grill's fuel supply when he could approach safely, then moved away from the contaminated cooking area.
For a moment, he stood looking at the ruined food.
Nearly forty people had been invited.