And one rule was added after nearly unanimous approval:
HOA representatives were prohibited from physically marking, attaching items to, moving, altering, or damaging privately owned vehicles as an enforcement technique.
Adrian laughed when he read it.
It felt absurd that anyone had needed to write such a rule.
Calvin disagreed.
"Most rules exist because someone once made the thing necessary."
Adrian nodded.
"Fair."
The SUV windshield was eventually restored.
The paint had damaged several seals and stained part of the trim.
Insurance covered most of it.
Brenda's personal liability insurer disputed responsibility.
Attorneys argued.
Eventually, Adrian was reimbursed.
He did not celebrate the check.
He celebrated the day he stopped thinking about the windshield.
That took longer.
For months, every time someone walked near his driveway, he looked toward the window.
Every unfamiliar parked car caught his attention.
Every HOA email made his shoulders tense.
He disliked that more than the physical damage.
Property could be repaired quickly.
Trust took longer.
One Saturday, Adrian's mother visited.
She stood beside the SUV.
"This the famous car?"
Adrian laughed.
"Unfortunately."
She inspected the windshield.
"Looks normal."
"It is."
"Good."
They walked toward the porch.
His mother paused.
"So why did she do it?"
Adrian considered the question.
"Paint the car?"
"All of it."
He looked down the street.
Children were riding bicycles near the corner.
A man washed his truck.
Someone was grilling in a backyard.
Ordinary suburban life.
"I think she started believing enforcement and control were the same thing."
His mother nodded.
"Easy mistake for people who like control."
Adrian smiled.
"You make that sound simple."
"It usually is."
She looked at him.
"People tell themselves complicated stories so they don't have to admit simple motives."
He thought about Brenda's emails.
Consequences.
Compliance.
Authority.
"Maybe."
His mother continued toward the house.
"Did you ever talk to her afterward?"
"No."
"You will."
"Why?"
"Because neighborhoods are small."
She was right.
Eight months after the paint incident, Adrian saw Brenda in the parking lot outside a mediation office.
Her criminal case was still proceeding.
Several civil claims were being negotiated separately.
She was carrying a plain leather bag.
No HOA folder.
No board documents.
She saw him.
Both stopped.
For several seconds neither spoke.
Then Brenda said.
"Your car looks fine."
Adrian almost laughed.
That was her opening.
"Yes."
She looked toward the building.
"I didn't expect things to go this far."
Adrian leaned against his car.
"What did you expect?"
"I thought you'd get angry."
"I did."
"I thought you'd yell."
"I did."
"I thought you'd make a scene."
"You poured paint on my windshield."
She closed her eyes briefly.
"I know."
He waited.
She looked older.
Not dramatically.
Just tired.
"Do you think I planned all of this?"
Adrian answered carefully.
"I don't know what you planned."
"You think I woke up one morning wanting to become some kind of criminal mastermind?"