The first sound that morning wasn\u2019t my alarm\u2014it was the drill.<\/p>\n
A deep, teeth-rattling grind came through the floor. I checked my phone: 7:12 a.m. on a Saturday. Coffee was still just a plan.<\/p>\n
The noise grew louder. Metal clanging, voices, a truck idling. I opened the door.<\/p>\n
A white work truck was half in my driveway. A man in a neon vest pounded into the concrete with a rotary hammer. Twenty-two bright yellow parking bars sat lined up like soldiers, ready for installation.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat the hell,\u201d I muttered.<\/p>\n
On the sidewalk, arms crossed, clipboard under one elbow, stood Karen\u2014HOA President. She didn\u2019t look at me.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhoa, whoa, whoa. What are you doing to my driveway?\u201d<\/p>\n
The worker paused, ear protection dangling, glancing at her. She sighed, as if I\u2019d interrupted her grocery list.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"