One of the drivers, a big guy, no smile, walked up and held out a clipboard. “Garage code,” he said. I opened my mouth to protest, but Lauren cut in. “It’s all approved. Temporary ordinance 47B. Don’t worry. This is standard procedure.” Hank appeared behind me like a ghost summoned by nonsense. “Approved by who?” he demanded. “By me,” Lauren said sweetly, “as acting HOA president.” The drivers did not wait for permission. They walked straight to my garage, tapped in the code Lauren apparently knew by heart, and rolled all three trucks inside, bumper to bumper, filling every inch of space. For the first time since I had moved here, Hank was speechless. He stood there blinking, jaw tightening. Two full minutes passed. Then he turned to me slowly and said the five words that would change everything. “Get me the lock, son.”
I should have stopped him. Any responsible adult would have said something like, let’s call a lawyer, or maybe we should discuss this. But Hank was not just my father. He was a man who once diffused a grenade using duct tape and a fishing lure. When someone like that asks for padlocks, you bring them padlocks. It is simply nature. He got to work with a precision that would have impressed NASA. Manual locks. Electronic locks. Chains. A metal bar wedged horizontally across the inside handles. Zip ties. Then more zip ties. He sealed that garage as if preparing for a zombie apocalypse. When he finished, he wiped his hands on a rag, nodded with satisfaction, and said, “Let’s see her ordinance override that.”
And then Lauren returned. She strutted up the driveway as if she were walking into court to defend her honor. “Jack,” she said. She always got Hank’s name wrong. “Those trucks are HOA property. You can’t legally—” But Hank had already lifted the phone to his ear. “Yeah, Sheriff Ramsay. I’ve got three unauthorized vehicles on my private property. Might be an attempted hostile takeover. Hard to say these days.” Lauren’s smile cracked like old paint.