The morning air snapped sharp, blue and electric, humming over the power lines like secrets waiting to spill. A black SUV glimmered under the sun, parked nose-to-wire at our cattlegate, chrome catching light like it wanted a magazine cover. My granddad stood on the porch, coffee in hand, hat low, studying it all with the calm precision of a man who reads storms like headlines.
“If they think this driveway’s a free parking lot,” he muttered, “they’re about to learn what a boundary actually means.”
The SUV had arrived pre-dawn, parked dangerously close to the live wire. Tinted windows, a polished bumper, and a gold-scripted sticker boasting: A Neighborhood’s Pride. Sage Hollow Meadows, a gated HOA where rules matter more than decency.
A sharp rhythm of heels on gravel announced the president herself. Lydia Crane, storm-gray blazer tight, chin high, marched toward us.
“Morning,” she said flatly. “This vehicle is conducting official business. We’ll remove it shortly.”
Granddad didn’t flinch. He sipped coffee, letting the silence stretch.
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