"That thing," she said, her voice sharp enough to cut glass, "is violating community noise ordinances."
I stared at her. "Noise ordinances? What community? This is a cabin in the woods."
Karen narrowed her eyes. "We are a community. And as the head of the HOA, I'm giving you an official warning. If the noise continues past 8:00 p.m., you'll be fined."
I laughed so hard I nearly spilled my beer. "A fine? From who? You?"
"Yes," she snapped. "From the HOA treasury."
"Lady," I said, wiping tears of laughter from my eyes, "the only treasury out here is my bait bucket."
Her lips pursed so tight I thought they might fuse shut. Without another word, she spun on her heel and stomped back down the path.
I figured that was the end of it—just another Karen tantrum, nothing more. But that was just the first sign.
The second came two nights later. I was lying in bed half-asleep when I heard rustling outside. At first, I thought it was raccoons; they loved to nose around the garbage bins. But when I peeked through the blinds, I caught a glimpse of something else: a flashlight beam sweeping across my yard. Someone was out there sneaking around.
I grabbed my boots and stepped quietly onto the porch. The light flickered near the shed—the shed that housed my generator. And standing there, trying way too hard to look casual in the middle of the night, was none other than Karen.
"What are you doing?" I called out.
She jumped like a guilty teenager. "Oh! I was just checking for safety violations."
"Safety violations at midnight?"
"It's community business," she stammered. "Generators can be fire hazards."