Instead, I started making a list.
Because anger makes a useful fuel if you do not let it hold the steering wheel.
First:
Certified subdivision plat.
Second:
HOA declaration.
Third:
State permit.
Fourth:
County inspection records.
Fifth:
Board minutes on annexation.
Sixth:
All assessment notices.
Seventh:
Dashcam footage.
Eighth:
Contractor identity.
Ninth:
Rainfall forecast.
Tenth:
People downhill.
That last item changed everything.
I could fight the HOA later.
Rain did not care about litigation schedules.
The state inspector arrived Wednesday morning.
Her name was Priya Nanduri.
Civil engineer.
Forty.
No patience for performance.
She walked the entire damaged structure.
Photographed.
Measured.
Crouched at the eroding cut.
Then stood.
“Who operated the excavator?”
“Ridgeworks.”
“Who hired them?”
“Cedar Ridge HOA.”
“Do they own the parcel?”
“No.”
“Do they have an easement?”
“No.”
“Did they contact us?”
“Apparently not.”
Priya looked toward the sky.
“We cannot rebuild properly before Friday.”
“I know.”
“Emergency rock closure?”
“Maybe.”
She shook her head.
“Not without risking failure somewhere else.”
I knew she was right.
If we rushed an uncontrolled repair, it could wash out catastrophically.
The safest move now was downstream preparation.
Priya issued an emergency violation notice against unauthorized alteration of the permitted structure.
She also notified county emergency management.
That afternoon, Curtis Lynn came out.
We had worked together years earlier.
He looked at the opened berm.
Then at me.
“You retire and get bored?”
“Apparently.”
“Who thought this was smart?”
“HOA.”
Curtis stared.
“I’m going to need more words.”
I explained.
He said nothing for almost thirty seconds.
Then:
“Friday’s forecast is getting worse.”
“How bad?”
“Five inches probable.”
“Locally seven.”
I looked downhill.
Cedar Ridge was partially visible through trees.
“Low houses?”
“Sixteen at serious risk.”
“Twenty-three possible.”
“Clubhouse?”
“Yes.”
“Road?”
“East section.”
“Evacuation?”
“Emergency management won’t order one yet.”
“Forecast uncertainty.”
I nodded.
Government cannot evacuate neighborhoods every time models show rain.
But I did not need legal authority to knock on doors.
That evening, Mrs. Alvarez came to my porch.
She carried a shoebox.
“I heard Karen tore down your dam.”
“News travels.”
“Frank told me.”
She sat.
Placed the box between us.
“What’s that?”
“My shame.”
I looked at her.
She opened it.
Notices.
Four years.
Mailbox color.
$75.
Wreath after deadline.
$200.
Porch lighting.