The first warning was a curl of paper tucked under our wiper blade: block letters, three exclamation points, a threat that sounded like it came straight from a neighborhood HOA that didn’t exist. “One car per house! Move the extra one or else!”
We laughed. Our street had no such rule, and both our cars were parked legally. It seemed like a grumpy welcome-to-the-block, nothing more.
Three days later, the morning ripped us awake with the metallic grind of chains and the groan of winches. I peeked through the curtains — two tow trucks crouched like predators by the curb, already lifting our cars by their front wheels.
Heart pounding, we rushed outside. And there she was — our new neighbor, arms folded, a smug little smile that said she’d been waiting for this exact moment.
“Well,” she called, loud enough for the tow drivers to hear, “maybe now you’ll follow the rules.”
I couldn’t help it — a laugh slipped out.
“What’s so funny?” she asked, brow furrowed.
“You actually went through with it,” I said slowly.
Her frown deepened. “Yes. There’s one car per house on this street.”
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