And a group of people standing together.
I smiled.
“That's pretty good.”
She looked proud.
Then pointed toward the tank.
“That's yours.”
I laughed.
“Well, technically—”
She raised one hand.
“Daddy. I know. Permits and inspections and authorized equipment.”
I burst out laughing.
She grinned.
Then pointed toward the people.
“That's the neighbors.”
I nodded.
She looked toward the drawing.
“And that's the fire chief.”
“Good.”
Then she pointed toward a small figure holding a clipboard.
“That's the engineer.”
I stared.
“Is that supposed to be me?”
She nodded.
I looked closer.
The figure wore a black T-shirt, gray shorts, and flip-flops.
I laughed.
“You remembered the flip-flops.”
She smiled.
“Of course.”
Then I noticed something.
The figure wasn't larger than the other people.
It stood beside them.
Not in front.
Not above.
Just one person in a group.
I looked toward my daughter.
“Why'd you draw everybody together?”
She considered the question.
Then answered as though it were obvious.
“Because nobody can keep the whole neighborhood safe alone.”
I became still.
She continued.
“You knew about water.”
She pointed toward the fire chief.
“He knew about fires.”
Then toward the neighbors.
“They helped.”
She looked at me.
“And everybody had to tell the truth.”
For several seconds, I couldn't speak.
Then I reached toward her.
She hugged me.
I held her tightly.
I thought about the retired librarian.
The treasurer who finally admitted he'd made mistakes.
The accountant who examined the numbers.
The attorney who insisted on proper evidence.
The firefighters who carried out the emergency plan.
My wife, who reminded me not to let anger take over.
And the neighbors who chose to act when the truth became uncomfortable.
My daughter was right.
Nobody had done it alone.
Later that night, after the house became quiet, I stepped into the backyard.
The air was cool.
The stars were beginning to appear.
I could hear distant traffic beyond the neighborhood.
I walked toward the side yard.
The green tank stood beside the garage, its protective signs clean and visible.
The gate was closed.
The surveillance camera remained mounted above the doorway.
Everything was peaceful.
I stopped near the tank.
Then looked toward the spot where the HOA president had stood in her hot-pink swimsuit, raising the baseball bat.
For a moment, I remembered her furious voice.
This ugly tank violates my rules!
Then I remembered the fire chief.
I authorized that tank.
I smiled faintly.