"I'll stand," I said. "Clem, are you okay?"
"I'm fine." She didn't move off the wall.
"Your daughter," Verlene said, "brought outside food into the pool enclosure in direct violation of Rule 9.2, which is posted, as you of all people know, at the entrance. When Tuck asked her to remove it, she refused. When I came over to explain the rule, I found she was also wearing a bag on the deck, which is a violation of Rule 11.4, and the bag contained these." She touched one of the pens with the tip of her pen, the way you might touch a dead bug. "Sharps are prohibited on the deck. And frankly, Mr. Benedetti, I don't know what kind of narcotics you allow in your home, but we have small children at this pool."
I looked at the pens. I looked at Verlene. For a second I genuinely thought I'd misheard her, the way you think you've misheard someone who says something in a language you speak but in an order you've never heard the words come in.
"Those are EpiPens," I said.
"I can read."
"She has a severe food allergy. That's epinephrine. It's not a narcotic. It's for anaphylaxis. If she has a reaction, that's what keeps her alive until the ambulance gets here."
"Then she shouldn't be eating outside food at the pool," Verlene said, "should she? The rule is there for a reason. If she ate what the Association provides, there'd be no issue."
"She can't eat what the Association provides. Everything at that window is fried in peanut oil. I called them."
"Then she can eat before she comes." She smiled when she said it. It wasn't a mean smile, exactly. It was the smile of somebody who has just solved a problem and is waiting for you to be grateful. "We can't make exceptions for every family's dietary preferences. Next it's gluten, then it's keto. You understand."