And the location he had in mind was the paved side yard beside my garage.
The very place where a furious woman would eventually stand in a hot-pink swimsuit, swinging an aluminum baseball bat at a green tank.
The fire chief's office looked exactly like the kind of place where important decisions were made without anyone trying to impress visitors.
There were maps on the walls.
A large table covered with inspection files.
A computer displaying emergency response information.
And a framed photograph of firefighters standing outside an older station building.
The chief was fifty-two, a tall white American man with close-cropped graying hair, a strong jaw, and the composed manner of someone who had spent years making difficult decisions under pressure.
He didn't greet me with a speech.
He shook my hand.
Offered coffee.
Then asked me to sit.
“Your professional background is in water infrastructure?”
“Yes, Chief.”
He nodded.
“I've read the information you've submitted.”
I looked toward the file.
He continued.
“I appreciate that you've used the proper channels.”
I smiled faintly.
“Trying to.”
He didn't smile.
Instead, he opened a map of Briarwood Ridge.
The neighborhood appeared in careful detail.
Streets.
Hydrants.
Access routes.
The clubhouse.
And the section of private water infrastructure that had become the center of the controversy.
He pointed toward the eastern streets.
“This area presents the most difficult interim supply conditions under the assessments.”
I leaned forward.
The chief explained that his department had evaluated operational contingencies while the responsible parties addressed the system deficiencies.
Fire apparatus carried water.
Mutual aid and additional water supply could be requested.
Crews could adapt tactics based on the incident.
But dependable nearby supplemental capacity could improve response options in certain situations.
He emphasized that a storage tank was not a substitute for correcting the private hydrant system.
The deficiencies still needed permanent repair.
I understood.
Then he pointed toward my property.
“Your side yard has enough space to consider a temporary supplemental installation, subject to design review, permits, access arrangements, and inspection.”
I stared.
“My yard?”
He nodded.
I looked toward the drawing.
The paved area beside our garage was larger than most side yards because of the home's original lot configuration.
It had an existing service access route.
The driveway was wide.
And the location was near the eastern portion of the neighborhood where supplemental water could be useful.
But a twelve-thousand-gallon tank was not something I could simply purchase and place beside the garage.