Again. That phrase was becoming her national anthem.
When she left, I checked my security feed. She didn't head straight back to her SUV. She stopped by the gate, took photos, then crouched to read the sign like it was fine print in a surrender treaty.
That night, I opened my notebook:
Karen Surveillance Log, Vol. 1.
Entry No. 2: 09:40 — Attempted guilt-tripping re: lake access. Outcome: sarcasm deployed successfully.
Entry No. 3: 10:05 — Photographed gate. Outcome: countermeasures pending.
The next few days followed a rhythm: morning coffee, quiet repair work, then the distant hum of HOA interference approaching like mosquitoes in coordinated formation.
One afternoon, as I was painting the railing, a white SUV rolled up. Not Skyler's beige tank, but a sleeker model. Out stepped two women in matching polo shirts embroidered with Lakeview Serenity Volunteer Committee. Behind them, two identical Chihuahuas barked like malfunctioning alarms.
"Good afternoon," the taller one called. "We're here on behalf of President Campbell to discuss shoreline beautification."
"I thought she'd come herself," I said, lowering my brush.
"She's very busy," the shorter one said proudly. "We're just collecting notes for next weekend's lake cleanup. We'll need full access to your dock for kayak staging."
"Not possible."
They exchanged a look. The dogs yipped in protest.
"But the community voted."
"I didn't."
"Sir, cooperation is mandatory for—"