By Friday, reports started coming in: the Crescent Meadows sprinklers had gone dry again. This time, there was no secret well to save them. I made sure the Clearstream technicians installed metering valves across the HOA's entire zone. If anyone tried to override the flow rate, the system would automatically cut pressure to zero.
That night, I poured myself a whiskey and walked out to the fence. From my property, I could see Sarah's grand fountain in the moonlight—silent, cracked, and gray. The queen's crown was gathering dust.
Then I heard it: voices, muffled and angry, coming from her yard.
"Sarah, the grass is dying! This is out of control! You said we'd have water back by the weekend!"
I smiled. The rebellion had begun.
By Monday, it wasn't just whispers anymore; it was open war inside the HOA. I got the full picture from Linda, who loved every second of it: Sarah called an emergency meeting in the community hall. Homeowners packed the room, sweaty and furious. The AC couldn't keep up with the crowd, and without water, even the decorative plants around the hall had wilted.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Sarah began, trying to project calm. "This is only temporary. I've spoken with the water company—"
"Then why do we still have no water?!" someone shouted.
"Because they're corrupt!" Sarah snapped, slamming her palm on the table. "This is retaliation by that farmer next door! He's behind all of this!"
Dozens of eyes turned toward her.
"You mean José Flores?" a neighbor asked. "The guy you said was paranoid?"
Her voice wavered. "He's manipulating the county, I'm sure of it!"
Another voice from the back: "Sarah, they said the new policy came from Clearstream Utilities. That's not the county."
She opened her mouth, then closed it.
"Then fix it!" someone else yelled. "We pay dues! You said you had influence!"
Linda told me later that the meeting ended with Sarah storming out, red-faced and humiliated, while residents shouted after her. One even demanded she refund their HOA fees.