The project manager did not call that afternoon. The following Monday, at seven minutes past ten in the morning, I came outside holding coffee and found two men measuring the gap between my live oaks. A white truck marked HARPER SITE SERVICES stood beside the county service lane, and one man was taking pictures of the tank from just inside my rear gate. Neither of them looked surprised to see me, which was the first thing that worried me.
"Morning," I said. "Who gave you permission to come through that gate?"
The older man introduced himself as Alan Harper and explained that the association had requested a removal survey. He had a work order showing my address, a pad dimension, and a note about access for a crane. I asked whether he had written permission from the homeowner or a court order. He looked down at the page, then back at me, and said no.
"Then you need to leave," I said. "The installation is privately owned, and the association's authority is disputed."
Alan did not argue. He told his assistant to put the tape measure away and apologized for the misunderstanding. Before leaving, he said he had been told the tank was an abandoned, noncompliant structure on association-controlled land. I asked him to put that instruction in writing if he could and advised him to check the ownership records before returning.
After they drove away, I took photographs of the tire marks and the gate, then called Mara. She wanted the company's name, the estimator's description of the work order, and the precise location where the men had stood. She cautioned me not to make accusations of trespass beyond what I could document and said she would notify the association's management company immediately. I sat at my kitchen table listening while she dictated the note to her assistant.
Celeste called forty minutes later. Her tone was not friendly, though she still tried to sound as if she were helping me understand a simple administrative matter. She said I had interfered with an association contractor and that my refusal was turning a small problem into a large one. I told her she had sent men onto private property without my permission and that they had left as soon as the ownership issue was explained.
"We are protecting the value of this community," she said.
"No, ma'am," I replied. "You're protecting your ability to decide things without checking them first."
The call ended more abruptly than our earlier conversations. I wrote down what we had said, including the parts that did not make me look particularly agreeable. Facts are not improved by leaving out the moments when your patience thins. Then I emailed the account to Mara and went back to the garage, where a leaking hose fitting needed the sort of attention that actually produced results.