Within minutes, half the crowd was pointing toward my house and whispering. I stayed seated with my soda, trying to enjoy the quiet drama unfolding around me.
That's when Karen, red-faced and boiling with frustration, stood up in the middle of the group and declared, "See, this is what happens when someone hoards power. We're all left in the dark while he lives like a king."
The irony of her statement was so heavy it practically bent gravity. People around her started rolling their eyes. One woman muttered, "He built that system himself." Another man said, "At least someone has power. Maybe the HOA should invest in solar instead of painting curbs."
I didn't say a word. I just got up, walked home, and flipped on my external monitor that displayed live footage from my system's control center. The outage had tripped a fault line in the main grid, a city-level issue. It had nothing to do with me. But the resentment in Karen's voice wasn't about logic. It was pure envy. She couldn't stand that I had something she didn't, something she couldn't control.
The next morning, the final straw landed. I caught her again on camera sneaking into my backyard. Only this time, she didn't come for the port. She came with a pair of gardening shears and tried to cut the data line running from one of my solar panels to the inverter unit. She must have thought it was a power line.
The second she snipped it, the motion sensor triggered an air horn rigged to the panel rig. A piercing scream tore through the morning air, followed by the sound of Karen falling backward and landing in a pile of mulch.
I walked outside casually, phone in hand, recording as I approached. Karen was still on the ground, dirt on her elbows, looking more furious than injured.
"I was trimming your weeds," she blurted. "You have invasive growth along the fence."