"It's on my driveway."
He looked.
"Yes."
"It was inside my garage."
He nodded.
"I figured."
He walked to the refrigerator.
Opened it.
Saw the food.
Read the Tupperware label.
Closed it.
Then studied the tubs.
"You throwing any of this away?"
"No."
"I've told people they can collect what belongs to them."
"Damaging anything?"
"No."
"Blocking sidewalk?"
"No."
"Street?"
"No."
Salas took out a small notebook.
Wrote something.
Then looked toward Patricia's porch.
"All right."
"That's it?"
"That's it."
He lowered his voice.
"Keep documenting."
Then he left.
The neighbors came out slowly.
Not to speak to me.
To retrieve property.
A woman wearing a tennis visor collected the Meadow Court lights.
A teenager carried away folding chairs two at a time.
Dale retrieved an extension cord and a box of holiday stakes.
A man I had not met wheeled away the pressure washer.
Nobody introduced themselves.
Nobody said thank you.
People collected their belongings with the stiff discomfort of guests leaving a party after discovering the host had never invited them.
By Sunday afternoon, almost everything was gone.
The refrigerator stayed four days.
Warm.
Silent.
Eventually a man in an unmarked delivery van arrived at seven in the morning.
He loaded it.
I asked who sent him.
"Association management."
"Receipt?"
He gave me one.
Good enough.
I believed the garage issue was finished.
I was wrong.
Monday evening I came home from work at 4:47 and could not enter my driveway.
A motor home occupied it.
Not a small camper.
Thirty-two feet of tan fiberglass with a brown swoosh along the side.
Satellite dish on top.
Rear bumper extended over the sidewalk.
The front end sat inches from my garage.
License plate frame:
LARKSPUR COMMONS PRESIDENT.
I stopped my truck in the street.
Patricia came outside before I had unbuckled.
She walked toward the split-rail fence dividing our front yards.
She rested both forearms on it.
"That's been my spot for three years."
I got out.
"Your spot."
"The house was empty."
"The driveway is wide."
"It made sense."
I looked at the RV.
"I live here now."
"I know."
She said it with remarkable calm.
"So you park on the street."
I almost laughed.
"You're serious."
"Completely."
"Move your motor home."
"No."
For a few seconds, I said nothing.
There were three words available to me.
I'm a judge.
They would have changed the conversation.
I knew that.
She did not yet know what I did.
Neither did most of the street.