“Then show me the field change.”
“It’s with management.”
“The site plan shows eight bollards.”
“The quantity increased.”
“To twenty-five.”
“Yes.”
“Show me that approval.”
The president sighed loudly.
“You are deliberately making this difficult.”
The homeowner almost laughed.
“You’ve built four steel posts across the only exit from my garage.”
“Your vehicle can remain where it is until the safety project is complete.”
The homeowner stared.
“You’re telling me I cannot drive off my property?”
“Temporarily.”
“On whose authority?”
“The association.”
The homeowner held the permit higher.
“This permit does not authorize anything here.”
The president stepped close enough that their faces were less than two feet apart.
“You have spent two years challenging every neighborhood improvement I propose.”
“That isn’t true.”
“You fought the parking program.”
“I fought you charging residents for guest spaces that were already included in our dues.”
“You challenged landscaping.”
“I asked why your preferred contractor was twenty-eight percent more expensive.”
“You challenged security cameras.”
“I asked who had access to the footage.”
“You challenge everything.”
The homeowner nodded.
“When the answers are bad.”
The president’s jaw tightened.
Then she slapped the permit out of the homeowner’s hand.
The pages scattered across the driveway.
Everyone went still.
The foreman stared.
The neighbor with the dog whispered:
“Oh.”
The homeowner looked at the papers.
Then at the president.
The president pointed at her.
“You do not wave paperwork in my face.”
The homeowner’s voice became very quiet.
“Do not touch me or my documents again.”
“I touched paper.”
“You hit the paper while it was in my hand.”
“Oh, please.”
The homeowner bent to pick up the pages.
A voice came from behind them.
“Leave it.”
They turned.
A city vehicle had stopped at the curb.
A municipal inspector wearing a reflective vest stepped out carrying a tablet.
He walked toward them.
The homeowner remained still.
The inspector bent, picked up the nearest page, then another.
He looked at the permit number.
Then toward the yellow bollards.
Then across the street.
His expression changed almost immediately.
“Who’s the contractor foreman?”
The older worker raised one hand.
“Me.”
“Stop all work.”
The president stepped forward.